Sin & Vice
by mak5258
Summary: In her sixth year, Dumbledore makes Hermione a key figure in a plan to help Harry defeat Voldemort. (It's difficult to summarize this without spoilers— HG/SS; there's a Time Turner involved but probably not how you expect; the story really gets started in Chapter Three.)
1. Prologue

Albus Dumbledore liked to think that he was a smart man. In fact, he knew that he was fairly intelligent, above average even. But sometimes, he forgot how young children could be.

As a Legilimens, he could brush against their minds without their noticing. He knew from the feel of them how far he could push without breaking them. The problem was the damage. He often didn't take into account the damage the pushing could cause.

Shaking, Dumbledore picked up his drink with his damaged hand. He would have to get used to it before term commenced, for appearances. He was entirely without sensation in his fingers, though the dark withered look of it extended almost to his elbow. He'd decided to keep it hidden, no need to frighten them unnecessarily, but otherwise he wouldn't concede to it. He would pretend it didn't bother him. He could move the fingers well enough; he just had to watch what they were doing.

The hand—that stupidness with the ring—had been the start of it. His biggest mistake in many years. (But also a blessing; it would make things easier for Severus, probably.) He had had to recalculate. The girl was brilliant and resilient, but he had forgotten how brutal those first lessons often were.

* * *

Severus was searching for a word. He couldn't seem to find the right one.

Amazed. Appalled. Guilty. Surprised. Terrified.

He poured himself another drink, looking at the Patronus, his Patronus. It wasn't doing anything, just standing there on his rug waiting for instruction.

For as long as he could remember, his Patronus had been a doe. A beautiful thing, lean legs and huge eyes. It had been Lily. It had represented the love he had for her, the longing, the pledge he had made when she died. And his guilt, too. There was always guilt tied up in any thought of Lily.

Now, looking at his Patronus, he couldn't pinpoint the moment it had happened, the moment things had changed, and it alarmed him. He knew it had happened, though. The evidence was right there on the carpet.

At some point since he'd last had occasion to cast his Patronus, he'd stopped loving Lily.

No, that wasn't it. He'd stopped loving her, actively loving her, a long time ago. Before her son even arrived at Hogwarts. It had started when he'd realized he had a closer friendship with Minerva McGonagall than he'd ever had with Lily. A competitive, bickering relationship as Heads of House; a cooperative relationship with their association with the Order; and, every once in awhile when the students weren't being abominable, a simple friendship that involved sharing articles from trade journals and mocking Sybil Trelawney.

Alcohol wasn't one of his usual vices, considering his experiences with the effects of drink at the hands of his pathetic excuse for a father. He usually favored recreational potions. This particular evening was a night for whiskey, though. Ogden's Finest. A bottle from one of the many Defense teachers that had passed through the halls of Hogwarts over the years, a Christmas gift for a colleague they didn't know.

He'd been in love with Lily; that was the truth. But she hadn't been in love with him. She'd been his only friend, and he'd held her close to his heart. She had made friends easily, and she'd been too polite to drop him entirely without an excuse. Then she'd had her excuse, and then it had just been him _yearning_ for her. And then him guilty about overhearing the prophecy, him guilty about not being able to prevent her death no matter how hard he'd tried.

So he'd hung onto her memory. He'd held onto what he thought was love for her. He'd let his guilt torture him, let Dumbledore jerk him around by that guilt like a leash.

And then he'd realized he wasn't doing anything for Lily anymore. He'd realized, when Dumbledore had asked something difficult of him, using veiled references to Lily's memory as incentive, that he was rolling his eyes (internally, of course) and doing it anyway. He would obey because it was the right thing to do, because the Dark Lord was mad as a hatter and bent on genocide.

But it really hit home when he'd been thinking of Lily, the way she'd changed in his thoughts, and he'd cast his Patronus on a whim, and it hadn't been a doe. It was a fox. A mangy thing, one ear tattered and a hunted look in its eyes.

* * *

**AN: Hello all, and welcome to the longest story I've ever written. It's currently over 230,000 words, and I'm still writing. I've finished editing the beginning, though, so I thought I'd start posting as incentive to get myself to finish up. (I'm aiming to update twice a week, FYI.)**

**This is HGSS. This is a marathon, not a sprint. This is the standard action/adventure/drama you expect from Harry Potter. There's also time travel, and more smut than I've ever written before, and a bit of gore, and made-up medical advice for wizard-folk, and family stuff, and spy stuff, and angst, and then some more time travel to round it all out.**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	2. Chapter One

Hermione didn't spend much time with her parents these days. In fact, if Ron hadn't been being such an ass-hat, she would've been at the Burrow for Christmas this year. However, he was being an ass-hat, and she wasn't at the Burrow.

Her parents were glad to have her. They could feel her drifting away from them, she knew. It was just that the Wizarding world was so different from the Muggle one. It wasn't just the magic, either. It was the people themselves, the places, the secrets. It wasn't about politics and the war, keeping just how difficult and dangerous things were from her parents. It was that her teachers, especially the headmaster, were eager to keep the dangers from them, too. She'd been in St. Mungo's after their blundering around the Department of Mysteries last summer, and she'd been sliced open from throat to hip. Dumbledore and McGonagall had both spoken with her parents, assuring them that it was nothing to worry about, she'd be mended in no time, and it really had been just a little mishap.

The psychology of the whole place was different. People lived longer, grew up faster. Part of it was that the Wizarding world was stuck in the Victorian era to an extent—no arranged marriages, thank God, but the quills and treating children like miniature adults had kept on.

Hermione sighed, putting the thoughts out of her mind. She was part of that world; it made sense to her, even if it sometimes alarmed her that it did. Today, she was doing her best to be a Muggle teenager for her parents. It was kind of nice, actually. She'd complained about Ron quite a bit, and they had smiled at each other and tried to cheer her up.

In two days, she'd be back at Hogwarts and that would be that. She'd have to see Won-Won and Lavender again, but that didn't matter so much. First off because she wasn't actually jealous of them all that much (or at least she could tell herself that from this distance), and second because it meant she'd be able to see Harry, Ginny, Luna and Neville again.

That plan derailed entirely.

Her parents were at work. (They'd had the full week off starting Christmas Eve, and their hours were shorter now until she was back at school, but they still had a few appointments to keep.) She had been reading one of the books she'd gotten for Christmas—a wonderfully distracting mystery novel that had nothing to do with anything—and absently petting Crookshanks. It was the cat that noticed first, getting up and running for the door a full minute before there was a knock.

Usually, she wouldn't have answered. Her parents' house was protected, but not as much as the Burrow. Also, the people at the door very rarely actually wanted to talk to her, and they would probably just leave their card in the mail slot.

Hermione glanced out the window looking down at the door. It was Headmaster Dumbledore. He was looking straight up at the window where she was peeking out and smiling benignly.

"Hello, sir," she said, letting him in. "I'm sorry. I didn't think—"

"Not at all, my dear," he said cheerfully, looking around the hall. He looked as though it was every day they talked to each other. In fact, the only contact she'd really had with him in the six years she'd been at Hogwarts was indirectly through Harry, or the brief conversation they'd had before her parents had arrived at St. Mungo's and he'd told her the cover story.

They went through to the sitting room and Hermione brought tea. It was very surreal.

"I am going to be blunt, Miss Granger," he said after they had gotten through the preliminaries (they were both well, her parents would be at work until half four, and they had both had splendid Christmases). He held up had withered hand, and she tried not to stare even though the point of his holding it up was so that she would look at it. "I am not able to do everything I had planned to do to defeat Voldemort in my current condition."

She nodded because he seemed to be pausing for her input. She sat on the edge of the sofa, back a little bit too straight, as it always seemed to be when she was nervous near authority figures.

"In fact, I have been informed that I will most likely not see the end of this school year." He paused to let that sink in. Honestly, she was having more trouble with the way he smiled when he said it, as though he was amused to have been given this information.

"I don't understand, sir." She couldn't think of a proper question.

"It's quite simple, Miss Granger," he said, putting his hand back in his lap. Hermione realized she'd been staring at it and moved her eyes back to his face guiltily. "I need to adjust my plans. And that means I'm going to need your help."

"Sir?" The idea was ludicrous. Why would he need her help when he had so many other options? Professor McGonagall, Harry, the whole of the Order, Snape, contacts at the Ministry.

"I know, my dear. Why you?" His eyes were twinkling, and she found it a little off-putting. "You are a bright and capable young witch. You already know most of the secrets I would have to tell anybody for the undertaking. You do not have any obligations other that school, and I am in a position to fix that one. Also, you have past experience with a Time Turner, which will be useful in this endeavor."

She frowned. It sounded like she might be expelled to free up her schedule. The thought was a bit alarming. It was the one thing she and her parents really had in common anymore—they didn't understand most of what her classes were about, but they could understand that she was getting good marks and had been made a Prefect.

Dumbledore sat back in his armchair, fluffing his periwinkle robes around him comfortably, and steepled his fingers in front of him as he explained. After the unfortunate destruction of all Ministry Time Turners, the Unspeakables had been doing a few experiments as they put the devices back together. Most of the experiments had been failures. One experiment had sent a poor wizard back to the fourteenth century (where he had lived out the rest of his life quite comfortably, writing letters to his colleagues in the future to inform them just what had happened). The rest of the projects had been scrapped after that one, though Dumbledore had got his hands on a prototype that had been assumed a failure and fixed it up himself. This he held out for Hermione.

"You'll note the differences from the one you had in your third year," he said, holding the Time Turner out by its chain and then dropping it into her palm. It was as light as the other one, cool to the touch. It looked delicate, but she knew it wasn't. The little hourglass was the same, though the sand seemed to be denser, closer to silver in color than the white sand she'd seen previously. The gold rim was different, too; it was thicker, with more adjustable rings to it. "Standard Time Turners can send a person back up to ten hours, and they won't work again until they've caught up to the original time—the natural linear point in time—as you know."

"Yes, sir." She'd had to read a handful of books on Time Turners before Professor McGonagall would sign her approval, and she'd read a few more purely out of interest after she'd turned the necklace in at the end of the year. She'd been meaning to do some research into time from the Wizarding perspective, actually; she just hadn't gotten around to it yet.

"This Time Turner can be set to Turn back hours, days, weeks, or months," he said, indicating the different rings around the rim. "Otherwise the function is mostly the same. Set the time you desire, turn the hourglass once, and back you go. It can't bring you forward again, we're not that far along in their development." He smirked, twinkling again. "But it can send you back, and then back again. It doesn't have to catch up to itself."

"Just how far will I be going back, sir?" she asked, because it was obvious she would be going. In fact, in the grand scheme of time, she technically already had. She wondered if she'd had to tell Dumbledore this plan so that he could tell her. That was a twisty time thought, indeed. She expected she'd start getting headaches if she tried to suss out the proper verb tenses for all this once she really got to it.

"Not so far this first time," he said, taking a pair of leatherbound books out of his pocket.

The books were mostly identical, both plain brown covers with, surprisingly, a Muggle zipper around three sides of the perimeter to keep them closed. One was older than the other, worn and used and faded. He handed her the one that was new, and she unzipped it at his gesture. It was a binder full of blank calendar pages like a schedule book, only there were no days or dates on the pages; they were lined, but totally blank.

"Sir?"

Dumbledore unzipped the older book, showing her the same pages but filled with her own handwriting. He flipped through a few pages, holding the book far enough away that she couldn't read what was actually written. There were photos stuck between a few of the pages, and she had a glimpse of people waving out of them and what might have been the Eiffel Tower before he closed the cover. He was smiling.

"The best part about traveling through time," he told her, smiling and twinkling, "is that you don't have to do much planning. You just tell yourself what happened when you catch up."

Hermione could feel a headache beginning to pulse between her eyebrows.

"I am going to send you back to the beginning of the summer," he told her, consulting the front pages of the schedule book in his hand briefly. "Each day, you will write where you are, where you went that day, what you did, and who you met. This isn't for any reason other than it is important to keep track of yourself. You will be doing a lot of Turning." He held up the thick book. "We don't want you to accidentally forget and cross your own path."

"No, sir."

"This first one will be fun, anyway," he said, the seriousness of the moment before gone in a blink. "You will spend the summer with Professor McGonagall at her home in the Highlands. She's going to get you through your N.E.W.T. curriculum at your own pace. And then, we will reconvene in my office a week before the beginning of the school year, right before the first staff meeting. We'll discuss the next Turn then." He twinkled at her again. "Or, I should say, that's what we did."

"Yes, sir." She wondered if she was in shock, or going into shock. It was certainly shocking.

"Now," he said, clapping his hands and standing. He put his tea things on the tray between them and flicked his wand, clearing it all to the kitchen. "You go up and pack your things. I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave your cat with your parents for the time being." He paused, seeming to think though she doubted it; he was pausing for effect. "I will come back at six o'clock, and we'll discuss it with them. Is that agreeable?"

She nodded, wondering what he would have said if she'd said no. Obviously, that was never going to happen because she'd already Turned back enough to fill the large book in her hand with dates and places, and then returned to give it to him.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Hermione," he said, startling her with his use of her first name. "Not everything you've written down in your book, here, is pleasant. There are good days and bad days. There are difficult days, and downright miserable days, too. But there are some rather nice days, as well." He had started solemnly but was twinkling at her by the end. She wanted to reach out and take the other book from him, flip through it and look at the pictures, but she knew better. It was the same reason that she had had to make such an effort not to be seen when she was Turning back for classes.

"I can do it, sir," she said, because she was a Gryffindor, after all.


	3. Chapter Two

**First Turn: from December 29, 1996, to July 2, 1996.**

"Ah, there you are," Dumbledore said. He was waiting for her at the school gates holding the same brown schedule book, though it was now months before he had given her the other copy. He took out his pocket watch and smiled at her. "Ten on the dot. You'll want to put that in your book."

She blinked at him, then took out her copy of the schedule book and a ballpoint pen (because, really, that was so much easier than keeping track of ink and quill). _December 29, 1996 back to July 2, 1996 at Hogwarts gate. 10 in the morning. Prof. Dumbledore waiting._ He was beaming at her when she looked up.

"Professor McGonagall is quite excited to begin," he told her, leading the way back up toward the castle. "She was against it at first, of course. The idea of disrupting your schooling like this is an odd one—no, don't tell me why. I'm sure I'll come up with it eventually." He twinkled down at her.

He went on as they walked. He was quite tickled, it seemed. She'd shown up in his office three days after Voldemort returned at the end of her fourth year, given him the book and answered a few questions very vaguely (and the rest not at all). She'd left, fulfilling duties she wouldn't tell him about, and he'd read the schedule book through, wondering why he would choose to send her back in time so much, and then decided that his future self knew what he was doing. He had told Professor McGonagall about the book but hadn't let her look inside of it.

"Hello, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said when they arrived at her office. She was packing a few last books into a tartan carpetbag, which obviously had an Undetectable Extension Charm on it similar to the one Hermione had used on her school bag to fit all her belongings into it. "Are you ready to go, then?"

Hermione nodded, not sure what to say. The professors seemed to be taking it in stride that she was here ready to study, sent back from just after Christmas. And meanwhile her other self was at St. Mungo's while the Healers sealed her guts back in. She shivered.

"Are you alright?" Dumbledore asked, giving her a concerned look. He had her schedule book tucked under his arm.

"Yes, sir. Fine." She resettled her back across her shoulders. She was a bit uncomfortable, as she was dressed for Hogwarts in December instead of July, but not incredibly so. "It's just a bit odd to think of it all."

McGonagall and Dumbledore shared an amused look that she didn't like one bit. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger," McGonagall said. "It's just that, since I learned that you would be joining me this summer, you have since turned up three times to meet with the headmaster about different projects. I daresay you'll be getting a fine tan during our time this summer."

Hermione smiled, feeling thoroughly out of her depth.

* * *

Professor McGonagall came from a very old Pureblood family. She was the last in a long line, and had therefore inherited quite a bit, including a rather large estate in the Highlands. Hermione couldn't say exactly where they were, only that they were farther north than Hogwarts.

There were three house elves, and Hermione was careful not to mention it. The elves were very excited to have their mistress back and even more excited to have a guest—and it was clear that McGonagall was kind to them, and that they liked her very much.

She got a tour of the house and a vague point around the grounds. Hermione would be in a large guest room close to the library, which suited her fine. Professor McGonagall's room was at the other end of the hall.

Hermione learned quite a bit about her Head of House in a short amount of time. She was an early riser. She wasn't precisely a bookworm like Hermione, though she did read quite a bit. She abhorred gardening but one of her favorite things to do was walk through the garden. Most evenings she took herself to bed by ten with a dram of good whiskey and either _Transfiguration Monthly _or _Animagi Today_. She also enjoyed teaching, tended to miss the school and the children on the holidays, and stoutly hated Pepper Imps.

The summer was a blur. They began with quite a long assessment of where Hermione was at in her studies, and then skipped on ahead. McGonagall knew most of the other subjects almost as well as Transfiguration, with the exception of Potions and Herbology.

When she wasn't studying or being tutored, Hermione was out on the grounds reading up on things. Professor Dumbledore had given her several books on Occlumency and Legilimency with the implication that if she learned enough from them he might be convinced to tutor her on them at some point. (She committed them to memory.)

**Second Turn: from August 26, 1996, to July 2, 1996.**

"Eight in the morning, the headmaster's office," Dumbledore said, comparing the book in his hand to his pocket watch and smiling. Hermione smiled back, dutifully filling in her schedule book with the details he'd given her.

"How are you, Headmaster?"

"Quite well. Did you have a nice summer?"

"It was very pleasant in the Highlands," Hermione confirmed, trying to keep herself from smirking. "Professor McGonagall has a very nice home."

"I am glad you two enjoyed each other; she is looking forward to it." He twinkled. "Now then," he said, clapping his hands together and tucking both book and watch into pockets. "We have a few hours before I need to meet you at the gate. Let's get you settled."

"Yes, sir."

She would be staying in the Room of Requirement this time through the summer. Dumbledore outlined a rough plan for her, mostly consisting of further study with full access to the Hogwarts library. He would catch her up on the Potions and Herbology bits that had been lacking, and they would work on Occlumency and Legilimency.

This time the summer wasn't so pleasant. She had to remain hidden from the teachers, though luckily they weren't around often. The hardest part was hiding from Snape, who was in at least twice a week to report on the Death Eaters.

And then the headmaster was wounded. She still didn't know what had happened, but Snape had been there. She'd never seen him move so fast as when he went barreling down the hall, running from the headmaster's office to his own potions lab, then back less than an hour later.

"I understand why I concocted this time-traveling for you now, Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore said when she saw him next, almost two weeks after. He didn't explain himself or the comment; he just pressed her even harder to her studies.

At the end of the summer, she took her N.E.W.T.s at the Ministry with a few former seventh years hoping for better marks. She got O's on everything except for History of Magic.

**Third Turn: from September 2, 1996, to July 9, 1995.**

It was the longest she'd Turned back, and it was a mistake. She appeared in the headmaster's office again, and was immediately sick all over his carpet.

"You mentioned that would happen," Dumbledore said, cleaning away the mess with a flick of his wand and handing her a mint. "Apparently it gets worse the further back you go."

She wanted to suggest that she not Turn back any further than she already was, but the thickness of the brown leather schedule book didn't give her much hope. Instead, she accepted the mint and filled in the top line on the appropriate page.

"What will I be doing this time?" She tried to recall what she had done directly after the end of her fourth year. There had been a few awkward weeks at home with her parents, trying to decide what to tell them, and then Mr. Weasley had arrived to cheerfully bring her to Grimmauld Place, where she spent the rest of the summer trying to learn all she could about the Order and cleaning with magic.

"A bit more involved this time," he said, twinkling. She wished he wouldn't; it seemed like all he ever did. "You will be going by the name Charlotte White." He handed her a packet of documents and credentials that said so. "And you will be studying Healing in France."

"Oh," she said belatedly, blinking at the documents. Her N.E.W.T. and O.W.L. scores were there, but it was the wrong name. Charlotte Katherine White. Entirely different birth date. An orphaned half-blood. She'd been a Gryffindor and had a shining letter of recommendation from her Head of House.

"I'm afraid we're getting to the point of all this sending you back now, Miss Granger," the headmaster said without a trace of the twinkle. He steepled his fingers in front of him as he spoke, and all she could think about was how strange it was to see him without the withered hand. He had forbidden her to tell him before it happened, and had made sure she was a good enough Occlumens to keep him from being able to look into her mind and see if for himself.

She took a Portkey to France, where she was placed in a clichéd country cottage with other Healing students. There were six of them in the cottage total, but the others were infinitely better roommates than Lavender and Parvati.

It was an intensive nine-month course. The first month was mostly anatomy and health. Within the first week of that, almost all of the students had taken up some sort of physical fitness routine, and Hermione was no different. Her roommates went running every morning and she went with them. It was awful at first, but before long it was just part of waking up.

The rest of the course was more challenging. After they had the foundation, they began to learn spells. There was a week devoted to disease, another for magical disease. A week for general wounds, a second for magical wounds. They covered potions and poisoning, charms accidents, mind magic gone wrong, spell damage in general, and several weeks on magical treatments for general ailments. They had to learn how to brew standard healing potions (such as Blood Replenishing potion).

If she had been taking the course with Harry and Ron, she wouldn't have had time to do anything but keep up with her own work and keep the boys on track. As it was, everybody was in the class because they wanted to be a Healer, so nobody had to play task-master. It was a relief, and she felt a little guilty about enjoying it.

She met a very nice boy named Claude, and they didn't exactly date but they spent a lot of time together. They studied in the same room and quizzed each other before tests. He was a lot like her, bookish and quiet. He was tall, dark and handsome. And, when they had a moment of down time, he liked to kiss her. He was very sweet; he called her Lottie. They even took a weekend to go sightseeing in Paris.

When the course was over, Claude was staying in France for an internship with Rafael's, the French equivalent of St. Mungo's. She told him she was going back to England and promised to write but knew she never would. That broke her heart a little bit.

**Fourth Turn: from April 12, 1996, to January 3, 1995.**

The illness wasn't quite so bad as the last time, but it was still quite uncomfortable. She very nearly threw up.

When she had herself under control, Hermione wrote down the when and where, then Apparated to Hogsmeade and wrote that down, too. She met the headmaster at the Three Broomsticks, chatting about her course and what would happen next.

"Next is St. Mungo's, of course," he confirmed, taking out a new packet of documents. This time, she would be Jean Isobel Blakely, Gryffindor. Her marks from the Healing course and her N.E.W.T. scores were there with a shining recommendation from Albus Dumbledore himself. "Come," he said, obviously excited. "I have you set up in an old Order safe house. Not quite so secure at Grimmauld these days, but it isn't headquarters, after all."

He Side-Along Apparated her, and she very nearly threw up again. Side-Along Apparation was much worse than going by herself.

The flat was lovely. Small, but she was the only person who would be living there. (That would be strange after sharing a small house with five other women.) There was a bedroom and bathroom, a small kitchen, and a living room that was dominated by a large dining table and a small sofa.

The internship at St. Mungo's was a coveted one, and Hermione wondered how the headmaster had managed it. He was Albus Dumbledore, so that explained some of it, but not the part where she would have to be interviewed and evaluated before they accepted her. She wondered if that would be something she did in the future even though it was currently in the past.

Most of the time, she could keep her own timeline straight without much difficulty, but whenever the headmaster got involved she began to get a headache.

On the ninth of January, she began at St. Mungo's and she very quickly forgot to think about anything else. It was an exclusive program for a reason; only the people who could handle it were selected. She might not have chosen to go into Healing, but she thought she might have made the choice on her own anyway. It was fascinating, if gruesome at times. She liked that she was helping people while she developed her skills for the Order.

It was about midway through October before she realized that she wouldn't be going back to Hogwarts. Not as a student, anyway.

**Fifth Turn: from January 6, 1996, to July 1, 1995.**

It didn't seem to matter that the Turn actually passed less time than the last time she'd gone back to July 1995; it was farther from her place in linear time than she had been, and she felt it. Dumbledore had put her in the Room of Requirement to do the Turning, and it was lucky. The room provided a soft floor for her to land on when she collapsed, and a nice, big bucket for her to vomit into. She wondered why she vomited on arrival in July but not January.

When she cleaned herself up and wrote down the travel details, she met Dumbledore waiting outside the Room. He wasn't twinkling, probably because he'd heard her being sick, but looked in a pleasant mood. The students would have left for the summer recently, which meant that he had a school full of teenagers out of his beard for a few months to deal with the Ministry and recall the Order.

"Right on time," he said, putting his pocket watch back in his pocket. She smiled at him, maybe a bit tensely. She was still annoyed, though mostly at herself for not realizing that this little side project would turn into her life and take her away from her friends. She reminded herself that his end goal had to be important, or he wouldn't have done it. Harry was important to him, and one of her main functions had always been to look out for Harry.

"It helps when I get to make up the schedule as I go," she said, nodding at the brown leather book tucked under his arm.

He chuckled, then got down to business. This time, she'd be in America attending a summer seminar on Arithmancy at the Salem Institute. Immediately fascinated (Arithmancy was her favorite subject, by far), she eagerly took the packet of details from him. This time her name would be Jennifer Marie Belvue (she immediately decided she'd be a Jen), a Gryffindor, and her N.E.W.T. scores didn't change. Her Healer license and internship certificate weren't included, which made sense, she supposed. The seminar was open to anybody who wanted to pay for it, so there was no letter of recommendation for her to chuckle over.

"Well, we need to be off. You Portkey out in twenty minutes, and orientation starts in Salem in half an hour."

And that was the story of her first few weeks. The seminar was incredibly fascinating, and Hermione learned quite a bit. It took her a few days to get her mind back in Arithmancy-mode after spending so much time thinking in terms of Healing spells and anatomy.

At the end of the seminar, in mid-September, the paper Hermione had written with a few of her classmates was published in an Arithmancy journal. It was both wonderful and sad. She was proud of her work, but when she was back to the proper time of things, it wouldn't be her paper anymore. Jen Belvue and Hermione Granger were two different people.

She was invited to Alexandria by the professor in charge of the seminar, and, after a hasty international Floo call with Dumbledore (as it happened, the time difference made it quite early in Scotland, and Dumbledore was distracted, muttering a bit about Stan Shunpike while she tried to get him to answer her one way or the other on Egypt).

The Muggles believed the Library of Alexandria had burned to the ground in ancient times, taking priceless information with it. In truth, it had been erased from Muggle histories after the Statute of Secrecy went into effect. It was the largest collection of Wizarding history in the world; Hermione was in heaven.

Her part in the project began in the library, working with runes and Arithmancy, doing research. It was wonderfully fascinating, but when a colleague of the professor's asked her if she wanted to do some work in the tombs she could hardly say no to the opportunity.

The pyramids were interesting, to say the least. She spent a lot of her time squinting at hieroglyphics and talking about different rune languages. At one point, she caught herself writing her notes on the project in glyphs.

The shine wore off the project when she ended up trapped in a tomb for two days. Somebody outside had triggered a ward, closing the stone around her. She was luckier than Tim, the other student that had been brought from the seminar. He was crushed by the closing stone.

She had no food and only conjured water, but that was enough to keep her alive. She spent too much time in the dimness, though. Lighting her wand tip hardly penetrated the darkness of the tomb, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched by the dead, as if they were waiting for her to join them so that they could tear her to shreds. When the others finally reopened the tomb, she was a wreck. They sent her back to England, apologizing but obviously wiping their hands of her.

**Sixth Turn: from December 5, 1995, to July 20, 1995.**

The headmaster was not pleased when she turned up at Hogwarts when he thought she would be in Egypt for another month. He gave her a very disappointed look, consulted his schedule book again, and sent her back to July.

Again, Hermione was quite ill. Not as bad as the time before, but still sick. After the shock of the time in the tomb, she wasn't able to shake off the feeling of wrongness, either. She felt out of place.

The hardest part was going back to Alexandria. Not actually getting there—Dumbledore was very free with the unauthorized Portkeys, and, as the library was all about sharing information, she didn't need a special group or cause to go there. It was the mental part that was difficult. The pyramids so close, the desert sand everywhere reminding her of what had just happened.

She didn't have to bother with her official research this time, either. She gave them the name Liz Belvue (while anybody could enter, everybody had to register at the front desk so that they could keep track; some of the books were dangerous). When asked later, she told everybody Jen Belvue was her sister, which was why they looked so much alike.

Hermione loved the Egyptian robes. Loose, flowing cotton in light colors, and such pretty scarves. It was polite for women to cover their hair in public, but she often forgot when she was immersed in a book, and her scarf would end up trailing around her shoulders. Her lover, an Australian named Roger, thought it was cute.

The light robes proved to be very absorbent, too. One evening, she and Roger were reading in the bowels of the library, and she came across possibly the dustiest book she'd ever found. She had flicked away the majority of the dust with her head scarf, and spent a pleasant evening getting lost in the ancient book. It wasn't a nice book, to be sure. It was full of Dark spells, dissecting them, how they worked, where their power came from.

She was three-quarters of the way through the book, looking at a particularly gruesome illustration of the effects of a curse that had, thankfully, been lost to time, when it hit her. There was no build-up, no warning. One moment she was pleasantly relaxed, reading across the table from Roger, the next she was jolted out of her chair screaming.

The Healers later told her that the curse had flayed her back like a whip. They estimated forty lashes, all more-or-less simultaneous. She had almost no skin left on her back. It took two days to grow the skin back, all the while coating her raw flesh with a creamy potion to keep the infection away. It got infected anyway, of course; it hadn't been a nice book.

Her back was a mess at the end of it. The skin came back before the muscle and flesh underneath did. This was good, because it meant she wasn't raw and open to more infection. It meant heavy scarring, though. Huge, deep valleys showing clearly where each stroke had cut into her flesh.

At night, when she finally got out of the hospital, she would lay on her stomach across the bed, and Roger would trace his fingertips across the sensitive new skin. She knew he didn't know what to say. She could never tell what he thought when he was tracing his fingers through the new grooves. She didn't know what _she _thought of them.

**Seventh Turn: from November 16, 1996, to December 31, 1994.**

She hadn't put the book in her schedule. She'd completed the research Dumbledore had needed her to do at the library despite all the time in the hospital, so she hadn't brought it up. She knew it was immature and impossible, but she felt like Dumbledore should have known. He shouldn't have sent her back to Alexandria. He should have known she was in the hospital and visited. He was the headmaster; he should have known.

But he hadn't.

She was incredibly sick after the Turn. If she hadn't just spent weeks in the hospital for her back, she would've said it was the worse she'd ever felt. She'd been unaware when she was Petrified, and the cat incident second year hadn't actually hurt any more than Polyjuice usually did.

When she began to recover, after the first day, she was filled with dread. The fact that the headmaster knew her and had her brown leather book meant that she would Turn back at least once more, which meant she'd be even sicker.

"Feeling better, Miss Granger?" the headmaster asked her the morning after she'd arrived.

"Marginally, sir." It was strange how he could reduce her to fourteen years old with a look and a few words.

"We'll give it a few more days, I think," Dumbledore said, handing her a book. He took the seat by the head of the bed, folding his hands and striking up a conversation. She lay there, paging through the book he had handed her—it was a Dark book, full of Horcruxes; she could feel the tingle of the evil in the pages across her fingertips—as she listened. He was working his way up to a conversation she didn't want to have.

This time, she went to Spain to stay with a contact of Dumbledore's so unsavory that he actually warned her about him. Remy Bird had been banished from three different countries. The only reason he was still in Spain was that the government couldn't make anything stick to him.

"I wouldn't send you if I didn't think it absolutely necessary," he said quietly. He wasn't twinkling. Looking at him, she was sure he thought it was absolutely necessary. She didn't think so. All this preparation he was having her do seemed excessive; she'd understood the Healing and why he'd had her take her N.E.W.T.s, but the Arithmancy and Dark Arts research didn't make sense to her.

Remy Bird was as unsavory as she'd been prepared for and more. He looked normal enough—tallish with a bit of a gut, bristly eyebrows, and strange golden eyes—but there was something in the set of his shoulders that she didn't like.

The house was in the country, secluded. It was an ominous place. She had the room upstairs, and he had loaded it with all sorts of Dark objects just waiting to jump out and get her. The first night, she was almost killed by a Lethifold. Then there was the incident with the screaming tea kettle, the bear rug on her bedroom floor that tried to bite her leg off, and the issue with the lewd mirror in the bathroom.

She learned a lot from Remy in a very short period of time. Over the course of the first month, she mastered more Dark spells than she had ever wanted to know. She'd also learned to counter them, even learning some nifty Healing spells particularly applicable to Dark magic.

Hermione was just beginning to think that it hadn't been an awful idea to come to Spain, even though Remy was very unpleasant to be around, when the bottom fell out. Remy had been removed from Portugal, Britain, and Germany for organizing "Muggle Fights." He kept witches and wizards in cages and made them fight with their fists, teeth and any wandless magic they could conjure up. Eventually, he let them go, modifying their memories first, of course.

Hermione had assumed the Muggle Fights were a thing of the past, otherwise Dumbledore wouldn't have sent her to Spain. She had operated on that assumption until she'd ended up in one of the cages.

She was his prime brawler for six months. He gave her a wand—a stunted thing that didn't like her at all—to Heal herself after each bout, and often had her heal his other favorites. Her knuckles were constantly splitting, her nails broken. Her eye sockets were cracked open so many times, she had permanent black eyes despite the Healing.

He didn't let her go. She tried to escape twice and failed both times. She was punished for her attempts, too. Then, after six months, something broke. She'd been decent with wandless and nonverball spells in the past, but the time in the Fights had honed her ability with a few useful spells. It was exhausting, and she tended to feel like she was going to burst apart at the seams from the raw magic of it, but she finally took too many blows and the line was crossed. Her third escape attempt was successful; after she got out of her cage, she took a wand from one of the handlers and left ashes behind her.

She killed Remy with a wire meant for slicing cheese. He had a big, old-fashioned block of yellow cheese always in his kitchen, with the long wire strung between wooden handles close at hand. The man loved that cheese.

It was a very convenient tool. She'd entered through the kitchen and found him at breakfast. He'd been too surprised to react, and then he had drawn his wand. She was used to him, though; he liked to talk. She'd talked to him, gotten a good hold on the cheese wire, and then wrapped the slicer around his neck like she was going to strangle him. It sliced clean through his windpipe and other vitals, right down to the spine. She left it in him, climbed the stairs to the room she'd occupied. Her things were as she'd left them and she retrieved them, cleaned up, and then held her wand tight in her fist as she cast Fiendfyre to burn the place to the ground. The authorities would assume the crazy Dark wizard had lost control—they would probably be relieved.

Hermione wasn't relieved. She had nightmares, and she felt like she was going to be sick most of the time. She didn't feel guilty; if anybody had deserved to die, it was Remy Bird. She thought about the people she'd killed in the Fights, though. She didn't know how to think of herself as a murderer.

**Eighth Turn: from July 18, 1995, to September 1, 1994.**

Hermione didn't go to Dumbledore after Spain. She took what she thought she might need from Remy's, burned the place to the ground, and found a secluded place to Turn back. She was knocked flat on her ass immediately, and spent a day floating in and out of consciousness, the week after that feeling truly awful.

When she felt human again, she snuck out of the Muggle hospital some kind passerby had stuck her in and got herself a room at La Casa, Madrid's Leaky Cauldron. She hid out for almost a month. She got her notes together for Dumbledore and wrote him a long letter railing against all that he'd put her through, then burned the letter and tucked her notes away for later.

She stayed in Madrid for almost a year. She went over her notes from Alexandria again with a new frame of reference from what she'd learned from Remy. She practiced with Fiendfyre (not in her room, of course; off in the countryside) so that she'd be able to destroy the Horcruxes when they found them.

At last, she felt stagnant in Madrid and returned to London. It had been a year and she didn't dare stay away any longer. But, when it came down to it, she couldn't go back. The stupid time in the cage, the Dark Arts, and Remy were all on her mind, and she didn't think she could face returning to a war zone. She Turned back before Voldemort returned, feeling a bit ashamed about it even as she did it.

**Ninth Turn: from September 12, 1995, to June 1, 1994.**

In another part of the world, Hermione Granger was desperately trying to teach Harry the Summoning Charm, playing owl between her two best friends who weren't speaking to each other, and flirting with Viktor Krum. Here, Mariah Northup was working in an apothecary. She kept her head down, did her work and did it well, and spent a lot of time jogging around Muggle neighborhoods.

She didn't make any friends. She didn't buy any books. She didn't hardly eat. She just went about her business, trying not to think about the coming war. She wondered if she could just keep Turning back until she was as old as Dumbledore.

She probably drank too much.

**Tenth Turn: from June 18, 1995, to January 1, 1994.**

Hermione had almost made it. She'd been thinking a lot about the Triwizard Tournament, wondering if she should try to change things. She'd even gone so far as to draft a letter to Dumbldore about Barty Crouch, Jr. and the Portkey. She'd worked up an Arithmancy matrix, evaluating potential outcomes of her interference and… in the end, she hadn't interfered. Voldemort's Horcruxes made his return inevitable; might as well face the devil she knew.

Or run from it, as it were. She went back as far as she could stand the thought of, cursing her own chicken-shit heart.

By February, she was ready to be back in her own time. She was slightly less of a drunk, and she didn't avoid thinking about the war anymore. Actually, she spent a lot of time thinking about it, building an Arithmantic matrix and feeding it variables until the contributing equations took up reams and reams of parchment.

In March, she got a job in Wizarding radio to pay the bills (mostly because the hours-to-pay ratio was good and it sounded kind of interesting), providing the Muggle-born perspective for a talk show. The general skew of the whole thing was to be informative of different ways of looking at social problems in the Wizarding world, and she found herself doing a lot of research on Wizarding class divisions and employment, all sorts of things she wouldn't have thought about otherwise.

In August 1995, the radio program was "cancelled." The studio was burned to the ground in an attack by Death Eaters. Hermione spent almost a week holed up in her flat trying not to have a nervous breakdown. She Turned back when thinking of doing anything else made it impossible to breathe.

**Eleventh Turn: from August 30, 1995, to March 1, 1994.**

Hermione disappeared into Edinburgh. She kept her head down, trying not to think of what she'd been doing the first time around (or any other time around). She didn't want to remember that this way the day _this _happened, or _that _person died. She just wanted to catch up to herself and move forward. She was furious with herself for reacting the way she had. Running away. Again.

Her flat was in a quiet Muggle neighborhood, a large house remodeled into six units. The houses on the same side of the block were similar set-ups, but across the street were detached single-family homes, newer developments. She was the only witch in the area, which suited her just fine. She still went overboard on the wards, but she relaxed enough that she only kept her wand in a specialized pocket of her shorts when she went jogging in the morning.

She took another job at an apothecary. She worked in the back room, no customer interaction. She prepared ingredients, wrote out labels for the bottles and jars, and kept the books. She worked Monday, Wednesday, Friday morning, and came in at her leisure either Satuday or Sunday afternoon to work with the ledgers.

She went by Samantha Barnes, Sam. The people who met her liked her, especially the potioneer (not a Potions Master, and he wasn't particularly happy about that lack) who ran the shop, but she made an effort not to stick out in their memories. Jack Boot, the potioneer, had a cousin at Hogwarts, and she tried not to think about it.

By January, Hermione's private research into the Horcruxes had reached a standstill. She knew more about them than anybody alive. The knowledge gave her nightmares sometimes, especially considering the amount of killing she'd done in the Fights.

The only way she could learn more would be to create a Horcrux herself, and that was decidedly not going to happen.

She put away her research, and closed the door on that particular project. Instead, she concentrated on all possible things Voldemort could have considered worthy of turning into those awful Dark objects. The list wasn't particularly long, but there were still too many possibilities. In the end, she put that project away, too; Dumbledore had the information needed to make any headway, not her.

Thinking of Dumbledore's cursed hand, she began to work on curse theory. It was Arithmancy-centered, breaking apart the bones of a curse (or, for her practical tests, simple charms) to have a look at the components. All spells could be broken down into runes, though it took some doing and wasn't particularly useful. Except if she could get it just right and use the runes to see where treatments could be applied, to investigate each rune and its reaction to the other runes that made up the spell, to find where the symptoms were coming from, which runes created them, and change the runes, break the curse from the inside out. It was a very backwards way of doing things—curse-breaking usually involved developing counter-curses or disarming the levels of a spell, not picking apart its bones. She'd always liked starting puzzles from the centers, though.

Then came the final Task, and Voldemort. _Horror at Hogwarts!_ was plastered across the front page of the _Daily Prophet_, an article (and many, many more like it on further pages and in later issues) featuring scattered accounts of the event from students and other onlookers. It had been chaos; nobody knew what had happened apart from the fact that one of the champions had wound up dead. Mention of Voldemort and Death Eaters had been carefully kept out of the papers.

Hermione made her way to Dumbledore's office (and he was thoroughly appalled that she was able to make it to his office unnoticed in such a time of crisis) a few days after the return and gave him the schedule book. She felt almost… bereft without it.

Three weeks later, she arrived perfectly on time to attend the first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix since the Potters had been killed. Mad-Eye Moody answered the door and held her at wand-point until Dumbledore had been called up from the kitchen to approve of her.

"I invited her here, Alastor, just as I once invited you," Dumbledore said calmly, as if it had been his idea to include her. If he wondered how she'd known the time and place of the meeting, he didn't show it. She kept her face blank, her chin up, and her eyes on Mad-Eye's wand arm.

"Fine." He'd waited too long to say it, and they all knew it.

She followed them down the familiar narrow hall. Everything was darker and grimier than she'd ever seen it. Nobody but Sirius Black was in residence yet, though, and Black seemed to be caught between exuberance at being away from the Dementors and terror at the prospect of being caught out and returned.

Dumbledore took his seat at the head of the table, his magnificent magenta robes going blood-red in the dim firelight. She wondered if the room was kept dim for the ambiance of secrets, or if it was simply because the lamps around the room had yet to be cleaned out.

Mad-Eye took the last seat, so Hermione stood by the fire at the far end of the table from the headmaster. It was an enjoyable warmth, and it put her in a good spot to see everybody. Most of them were familiar faces—Mad-Eye, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill Weasley, the funny man with the top hat, Hestia Jones, Remus Lupin, Professor McGonagall, Hagrid. They were the old guard, those who had fought last time. Excepting Mad-Eye, they all had a raw, panicked look to their pale faces that spoke volumes about the trauma they knew came with this war.

Surprisingly, those looks made her feel better about their situation.

"Tom Riddle has returned to the corporeal," Dumbledore said, all traces of his grandfatherly persona gone. He was the wizard who had defeated Grindelwald and it showed.

"How?" Lupin asked, his voice hoarse. He sat next to Black at the far end of the table from Hermione.

"Dark magic," Dumbledore said, and she almost thought she saw the hint of a twinkle. He enjoyed the tense silence—all of them daring him not to give them more information—for the space of a breath before he continued. "Young Mr. Potter witnessed the rite in the graveyard. I ask that none of you ask him for details. Let the memory fade as well as it can."

"What's our move, Headmaster?" Black asked, his voice quiet, after they'd all had a chance to nod to Dumbledore's request.

"Severus has returned to spy for us. We'll be able to plan strategy when he brings back what information is to be had."

"You mean the information his _Dark Lord_ wants him to give us," Mad-Eye growled. Dumbledore stared at him until the old Auror glanced away. Hermione noted that his magical eye was fixed on her, but she probably shouldn't have been surprised at that since she was the only newcomer.

"Until we have that information, we wait and we watch. Keep your eyes open. We need allies, but more than that we need information. Cultvate your old sources; find new ones. Be on the lookout for people who might be willing to join our Order, but nobody is approached until you clear them with me."

People along the table murmured their assent.

The meeting moved along into the details. The Weasleys would come stay at Grimmauld Place with Black, help to clean the place up and get it running as a functional headquarters. Mad-Eye would go meet with dear old Mrs. Figg to give her the latest means of contacting the Order and remind her to keep a close watch on Harry in the coming weeks. Hagrid would go to the giants. Lupin would go to the werewolves. Jones and Diggle (the man with the top hat) would start stocking the old safe houses.

"And what about her?" Mad-Eye asked, turning both eyes to her in a strangely squinty glare. Hermione looked coolly back at him, then flicked her eyes to the headmaster and raised her eyebrow in her best impression of Professor Snape.

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said, smiling benignly. "I forgot you hadn't been introduced. This is Samantha Barnes. She will be our Healer."

"You work for St. Mungos?" Black asked. His hands were clenched on the edge of the table like he was ready to run, and Hermione smiled almost fondly at him when she remembered there was a clause in the St. Mungo's contract for Healers to report any dealings with fugitives.

"No. I work in an apothecary."

"You were dismissed?" Mad-Eye asked, his brown eye gleaming with something close to malice.

"I opted out."

"You _opted out_—" Mad-Eye began mockingly, but Dumbledore silenced him with a raised hand and a stern look.

"Enough, Alastor." His voice was calm. He glanced at Hermione before speaking to the table at large again. "Miss Barnes will also be brewing potions for us as needed."

"Snape got too much on his plate all of a sudden?" Black asked petulantly. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes; she'd forgotten how petty the two could be about each other. The adults had been as careful as they could be about keeping the spats out of sight, but they hadn't been entirely successful.

"I said _enough_," Dumbledore repeated, now turning the stern look on Black. The younger man looked down at the table in front of him, frowning.

Dumbledore charmed the bell pull in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place to make her pocketwatch chime. It was a fascinating adaption of the Protean Charm that she wished she had the time to study—there were hundreds of potential permutations that could yield some interesting results…

She'd returned to her flat and stared out the window at the Muggles going about their normal lives for a long time. She had a bottle of red wine and she opened it, nursing a glass while she watched them.

The worst part about it all was that, by returning to Hogwarts and giving Dumbledore the schedule book, she'd basically consented to it. The horror, the scars, all of it. She'd accepted it, accepted that it would happen and become part of her past. The time she'd been Turning—and it had been almost ten years—was written on her skin, carved into her flesh and her psyche, and giving that book to Dumbledore had been the catalyst for it all. The paradox of it didn't even matter.

She had a light buzz going from the bottle of wine when her pocket watch chimed. She grabbed her kit out of the cupboard, downed a Sober-Up (a potion developed by the same distributor who thought up Pepper-Up), and went down the hall to the Apparition point.

Dumbledore waited for her alone in the kitchen.

"You don't seem to be in pain," she observed, working a complex little trick on her satchel—a favorite convenience, supple leather Extended and made Weightless—so that she could fold it down to wallet size and stash it the back pocket of her blue jeans.

"I'm afraid I have something horrible to ask of you."

_He's going to ask me to kill somebody._

And he did, and if he had done it just a few weeks before she would never have given him the schedule book, paradoxes be damned.

She returned to her flat and dressed carefully. Her dragonhide boots, a plain cotton tank top, leather strips to wrap around her hands and wrists, a dragonhide vest. She'd developed an odd flair of Wizarding style in the past few years—adjusting to life in robes, acquiring items like the satchel and trinkets braided into her hair—that she removed from herself now. She wore nothing but the protective gear, her wand and a small knife strapped in a sheath on her left forearm.

Dumbledore had given her a name and address on a slip of parchment. Wendell (her father's name, some hateful recess of her brain reminded her) West. He lived in Bath. He wasn't a Death Eater, but he was a major financial backer, a loud voice among those calling false on Dumbledore and Harry.

He lived alone in an oppulant manor that spoke of old money, guarded by wards that hadn't been tended in decades. It was a matter of minutes before she was through them, the old spells believing she was a member of household and therefore uninteresting. Mr. West had fallen asleep in his office; she conjured ropes and bound him to his chair.

"_Legilmens_."

A once proud manor falling to ruins, dark and dust in all the corners. Crowds of robed and masked Death Eaters standing at attention in a moldy sitting room. Voldemort's reptilian face all harsh lines as he questioned those who returned late, one after another, sparing this one but killing that one. Mr. West handing over bags and bags of galleons with a smile. Mr. West begging to be allowed to wear the Mark and refused each time, but still bringing more money and hoping _this time_ he would be allowed to properly join.

The memories flitted past, faster and faster. Mr. West had been new to the cause at the end of the last reign; he was trying to buy his way in this time around. He wasn't trusted, though. He had a Squib uncle who'd married a Muggle. He was also fairly dim-witted, or at least lacked the brains to see how he was being manipulated and misled. Voldemort was bleeding him dry, and then he'd be used as a scapegoat for something.

Hermione closed her eyes, cutting his mind off from hers. He gasped with relief, and she almost winced in sympathy. Dumbledore had probed at her mind a few times since she'd handed over the schedule book, not with the aim to hurt her but not particularly gently either; he wanted information that she'd promised not to give him. (It was a complicated situation.)

She used the knife to kill him, slitting his throat in one smooth movement. She felt it, as she'd felt all the deaths she'd caused in the Fights. It _hurt_. She could feel the magic leave him, the soul leave him. She gave herself a moment to mourn for it, to mourn for herself. She wondered if Dumbledore had any idea what he'd asked her when he gave her that slip of parchment, but she would never ask him; she had a horrible, crawling, itching, aching feeling that he knew exactly what he'd asked of her.

When the blood had stopped flowing from his neck, Hermione stood and put the knife back in its place. A quick sweep of the manor turned up no useful objects, Dark or otherwise. He had a beautiful quill set, but she knew better than to start collecting trophies. There was nothing useful to the Order, so she would leave it all. She even left the gold in the bottom left-hand desk drawer where he'd hidden it away for his next rendezvous with his Dark Lord.

She began with the body, casting the Fiendfyre and watching it all disappear into dark ash. First the wizard, then his chair, then his desk. Then the entire room was in flames and she moved down the hall. Room by room, floor by floor. And then she was standing out on the lawn, and the house was crumbling into dust just the way Remy Bird's much smaller house had in Spain. And then it was time to call the Fiendfyre back, the hardest part of working with the cursed flames, but she'd had practice.

When she left, the manor was no more than dark earth smoking quietly at the center of the overly green lawns. The Aurors would be on the scene within the hour, since that level of Dark magic sustained for so long would be shooting an alert through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

She went back to her flat and took a very long shower, scrubbing herself until it hurt. Then she got out of the shower and slowly reassembled herself as Sam Barnes. She wore a blue-black feather, a raven's, under her hair at the back of her head, the tip of the feather tickling the nape of her neck and poking out at the collar of her robes. She braided the hank of hair over her left shoulder behind her ear, tying it off with a bit of colorful string hung with a silver Muggle charm in the shape of a crescent moon. She had beads on a twist of hair back towards the crown of her head on the right side, small beads of all colors. When her hair dried it would be wild with curls, and these little touches made her look more exotic, like the wild hair was a choice instead of a nuisance.

She wore a robe from Alexandria, peachy-salmon colored, unadorned, flowing. It was open down the front and had wide sleeves. She wore a cream tank top beneath with a square neck and khaki shorts. Sandals. The scarf she would have had over her head in Egypt, a gauzy teal thing, hung loose around her neck instead to hide the top of the scar from the Department of Mysteries.

When she'd finished dressing, she realized she had nowhere to go. Dumbledore would have left Grimmauld Place hours ago while she was poking her way through West's pathetic wards. She couldn't go to him at Hogwarts, not least because it was past three in the morning. She couldn't write him, first because she didn't have an owl to carry the message and second because that would be creating her very own incriminating evidence after she'd so carefully burned the rest of it.

Sighing, wishing she could erase the day in its entirety, Hermione opened another bottle of wine and watched the sun rise.

In August, there was another meeting. The table had been expanded to fill most of the kitchen, benches and chairs found in an attic or spare room. Hermione arrived late—she didn't want to talk to friends who thought she was a stranger—and ended up standing by the fire again. Within moments, she was joined by Professor Snape, who ignored her.

The strangest part had been walking in past the line of Weasleys, her younger self, and Harry standing along the banister. She remembered it, watching the mysterious witches and wizards of the Order of the Phoenix gather. She remembered the small witch with beads and braids in her mass of hair, wishing that she'd be able to own the rat's nest as well as that some day.

Oh, the irony.

Hermione refocused, looking down the table. Familiar faces had filled out the ranks—Bill and Percy Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Tonks—as the summer went on. There were unfamiliar faces, too; those that arrived by Floo and left the same way, carefully secret from the children watching the door. Their numbers were small compaired to the Death Eaters, but they held key positions, brought important talents to the table, as it were.

The discussion at all the meetings was dominated by the Department of Mysteries and the Hall of Prophesy. Guard rotations, the wisdom of leaving the prophesy where it was, what was Voldemort doing regarding the prophesy. She wanted to shout at them that it didn't matter, it would be broken within a year's time and one of them would be dead, but she held her tongue.

Dumbledore motioned for her and Professor Snape to follow him out of the room at the meeting's end, and they did so. They passed Fred and George on their way up the stairs, and she carefully kept her hair between their eyes and her face. Dumbledore placed himself between her and the first bedroom on the right as they passed, and she recalled that that had been the room she shared with Ginny.

The library was musty, full of cranky books and damp curtains, but the chairs weren't uncomfortable. Faded Slytherin green, the apholstery gone lumpy, but they were still a step up from leaning on the mantle in the kitchen. The headmaster settled in the chair closest to the empty fireplace with a pleased look. Professor Snape took the chair opposite, leaving Hermione to perch awkwardly on the center cushion of the sofa.

"I felt we should make a proper introduction," Dumbledore said, smiling benevolently at them. She raised her eyebrow at him, realized she was doing her Professor Snape impersonation, and stopped, throwing a nervous glance at the professor. He seemed to be too busy not-quite-sneering at Dumbledore to notice her.

"As you know, Miss Barnes, Professor Snape is our spy. As such, it is likely that he will be the one you tend to the most. Severus, this is Samantha Barnes, our Healer."

Professor Snape looked her over critically, face impassive. She got the impression that she fell short, in his eyes. He'd always looked at her like that, though, so she didn't bother reacting. "Miss Barnes," he said after too long to be exactly polite, tipping his head ever so slightly.

"Professor," she responded, turning back to the headmaster but giving him a careful look out of the corner of her eye. He looked exactly as she remembered him, fish-belly pale wrapped up in black wool. The choice of frock coat and trousers spoke of a Muggle upbringing the way her tendency to wear blue jeans under her robes did; she hadn't realized that before, but it hardly changed things. From a Healer's perspective, she could see that he was overtired, stressed, and needed a few hearty meals. There was a very slight tremor in his hands, but she couldn't be certain if it was a lagging sign of the Cruciatus Curse or something else. Not nerves, surely.

"I think I'll leave you to get to know one another. You'll be working together quite closely—I expect you'll be helping our Severus with the brewing before the summer is out, my dear. It might be a good idea for you to give him access to your home, I think."

Hermione nodded. Professor Snape didn't like Black and Black didn't like him; it would remove both awkwardness and antagonism if they could limit the time they spent with each other. The professor especially wouldn't appreciate waiting in Black's kitchen while he was hurt.

"I will see you both Tuesday next."

They murmured their goodbyes, and Hermione realized that she was nervous. This was Severus Snape, Potions Master, Death Eater, spy. She wasn't afraid he would hurt her. She was nervous that, as a spy, he would realize who she was. She'd been very careful that didn't happen so far, especially coming into contact with people who could know her so regularly, or nearly regularly. She'd added more beads and charms to her hair, started thickening her eye liner to give the impression of a different shape to her eyes.

"So. Miss Barnes. Or is it Healer Barnes?"

"Just Sam," she corrected. "Most everybody calls me Sam. And, no, definitely not 'Healer.' I've never been employed as a Healer."

"What are you doing as a Healer for the Order, then?" he snapped. She wanted to frown at him or roll her eyes, but she took a different tack. She gave him a gentle, patient look and hoped it would get on his nerves.

"I've been offered several positions as a Healer, not the least of which came from St. Mungo's."

"Too good for them?" He was aiming for haughty, she could tell. She smiled, which made him frown.

"The entire purpose behind my training as a Healer was for the benefit of the Order. If I were to take a job at St. Mungo's—or anywhere else, for that matter—as a Healer, the hours would quickly prevent my usefulness. And there are certain stipulations in the contracts at St. Mungo's that would hamper my—providing services—to vigilantes. So instead, I work at an apothecary; predictable hours, you see. That leaves me with plenty of time to be at headquarters for meetings, to tend to any need that arises, and such."

So far, she'd been called once to sort out Fred when he'd Splinched himself trying to Apparate out of the kitchen with a platter of cakes he wasn't supposed to have, but that was it.

* * *

She was hard to read. Yes, there had been a moment of panic when the headmaster had departed and she'd found herself alone with him, the Death Eater in their midst, but then she was just… calm. Pleasant, almost.

_She has a hell of a bedside manner_.

They talked. He asked her about the apothecary and her brewing, trying to decide how annoyed he should be with his employer for setting him an assistant. She asked him about his medical history and if he had any allergies. It was a very strange conversation.

Her flat was in Muggle Edinburgh, and the wards were ridiculous. If it hadn't been for the subtle touches of magic noting its maker, he would have thought Dumbledore had set them for her. He reevaluated his opinion of her, though that didn't say much. She was still an unknown.

"Here you are, then," she said, handing him a simple key, one of the small, modern ones for Muggle locks. "It will let you through the wards _and_ the door."

The way she smiled cheekily as he took it made him think she was flirting with him, but the reservation in her dark eyes suggested otherwise.

He saw her the next day in Diagon Alley. He'd been to Gringott's, getting what he'd need for the next several months before the place was swarmed with students buying their things for the beginning of term. He'd left the bank, begun to make his way down the steps, and there she was. She left Flourish and Blott's, tucking a pair of thick tomes into the ever-present satchel (which they should not have fit into, yet did without even a bulge in the leather), and turned toward the Leaky Cauldron.

He watched her walk, watched the way she all but disappeared into the crowd. She was tense, though she didn't really look it. She radiated a sort of aversion to attention that he'd honed for himself years ago. She looked approachable enough, yet nobody would dare.

_She's sharp and ragged, hardened at the center_, he thought, matching his observations with those he'd made the previous night while they talked. _Whatever she's been through, it's made her hard. Whatever brittle bits she was left with from the hardening have broken off around the edges and left this sharp, hardened thing. She used to be soft, you can see it in her infuriating bedside manner._

_She's a weapon. _

_No, she can't be. She's a Healer._

_… __Where the hell did Dumbledore find this witch?_

* * *

**AN: Sorry for the enormous chapter of exposition... had to get it in. But now we can start getting into the meat of it.**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	4. Chapter Three

It was Friday, and that meant he had two days to himself. Oh, he'd have to sit his office hours on Saturday, but nobody ever dared his office even during his office hours without an appointment. He had no appointments for the weekend. And he had the late rounds on Saturday night.

He nodded at Dumbledore after dinner, knowing the old wizard would understand. Severus ditched his teaching robes in his sitting room and made his way out of the castle using one of the secret passages Dumbledore had created for him to answer a Summons.

Severus made his walk across the grounds leisurely. There was no hurry to arrive at Grimmauld Place. He couldn't brew the Wolfsbane in the castle, not with the toad around to ask questions, and so he'd been going to Grimmauld Place the week before the full moon each month. It didn't matter when in the week it was brewed, just so long as it was no more than seven days before the full moon's rise.

He Apparated to the front stoop of Grimmauld Place with practiced ease. His potions things were set up in the cellar, a plain room with whitewashed brick walls and floor, a few simple shelves and a sturdy table. He had taken it over immediately, clearing out cobwebs and getting Dumbledore to have Black forbid the house elf from entering. He was the only one who ever went down there anymore. Or he thought he was. He'd forgotten about the Barnes witch.

But… this wasn't the Barnes witch.

He didn't recognize her at first. Slender, not particularly tall, nice curves. He could tell she had a lot of hair, some variation on brown, but it was all bound back into a tight braid and coated with the same grease he used when he brewed to keep it from dropping into his work or being damaged by fumes.

He waited until she had lowered the flame beneath the cauldron to let it simmer before he cleared his throat. She didn't flinch, merely turned around and looked at him. He looked back, eyes narrowed.

She wore the standard protective gear—a sturdy apron, dragonhide boots and gloves fit to her hands and wrists with buckles and tiny buttons. Muggle blue jeans, faded but not torn, a sturdy flannel shirt; good brewing clothes for a basement room.

"Hello, Professor," she said, and his eyes snapped to her face. It was undoubtedly Granger, but it couldn't be… She'd had Potions that morning. A little thing in knee socks bouncing in her chair through his lecture, waving her hand to prove she'd read the assigned text (and the sources referenced in the footnotes). This was not that teenager. This was a woman, probably within a decade of himself, still young by Wizarding standards but considerably older than she was supposed to be. Her face was unlined, but she still looked older. It was the eyes.

"Miss Granger?" He couldn't help but make it a question.

"Ah, I was wondering how long it would take you," she said, sounding resigned. He narrowed his eyes, and then connected the dots.

"Samantha Barnes, too."

"Of course."

She'd taken the beads out of her hair. Odd that such a small detail could throw him off. Or maybe it was seeing her brewing that did ti; he'd been her Potions instructor for too long not to notice the way she held the stirring rod while she counted the wait.

"I suppose the headmaster didn't tell you that the Wolfsbane would be taken care of?" she asked, though his presence should have made such a question rhetorical.

"No."

"I'll owl you next time. You could've had a proper Friday night."

"A proper Friday night? I work at a boarding school."

"And?"

They'd left the potion to simmer—it would be awhile before it needed attention—and were up the stairs in the kitchen. She was slowly removing the protective layers for brewing, tossing the heavy apron over one of the chairs before she sat down and began working on the gloves. It was strange to see her like this, separate even from the strangeness of the overlaying impressions of Samantha Barnes and Hermione Granger. She was calm and confident under his watch. She was a figdeter whenever she knew he was paying attention to her in class. Samantha Barnes had shown this outward calm, though. It had been infuriating when each of his probing questions or rudeness had simply been met with an amused smile.

"A proper Friday night at Hogwarts involves patrolling corridors and, perhaps, a dram in the staff room."

"That doesn't sound horrible."

"It is when Dolores Umbrage is in the staff room."

"That… would be horrible."

"You've no idea."

"Oh, I have some idea."

He narrowed his eyes at her. She just shrugged and tossed the glove she'd removed at the chair with the apron, then fixed her attention on the other glove.

"I suppose the headmaster thinks he's being sneaky, not telling you that I had the evening free and volunteered to do the brewing."

He watched her work on the other glove, noting quite a few small scars on her hands that he wasn't familiar with. Mostly the nicks and burns common to those who work with potions ingredients and brew often. The rest of her was well covered, so he couldn't tell if there were more of them, but something in her bearing, especially remembering when he'd seen her walk down Diagon Alley, told him that there would be. There was something about the feel of her—and he couldn't tell if it was the tone of her magic or if it was something else—suggested battle scars.

"I think he prefers the term 'conniving,'" Severus said conversationally, just to see how she reacted. She smirked, eyes flicking up to meet his before returning to the glove. Interesting.

When he'd returned from the Dark Lord's side that first time, after he'd gone to the Riddle house half hoping he'd be killed outright, he'd gone straight to Poppy. The only thing she could give him was the muscle relaxant for the shaking, but she'd also given him tea. She'd sat with him, and hadn't asked him any questions. She'd been there for him since he was eleven, patching him up after summers at home with his hateful father or skirmishes with the Marauders.

"I'll likely be dead before the year is out," he'd told her. She hadn't said anything, hadn't asked him where he'd been. (She probably knew anyway.) She'd just put a hand over his and sat with him. She hadn't asked who had used the Cruciatus Curse on him or where his loyalties lay, she'd simply given him the potion, made him sit down while the tea steeped, and told him about an article she'd read recently about Spattergroit.

The headmaster had found him there, sitting in her office drinking tea and trying not to shake. In retrospect, Severus wondered if he was being manipulated, guided away from perceived alliances, friendships. No contact with the people he could tolerate unless Dumbledore sanctioned it, even Poppy. That was always the way it had been. This Hermione Granger that _wasn't _Hermione Granger was an odd choice for an approved match.

He glared, but she ignored it. It was disconcerting.

After a moment of staring at each other, she stood and began to make tea. He watched her, trying to get a proper read. Granger was young but competent. She had brewed Polyjuice Potion when she was thirteen years old, and the only thing that had gone wrong had been the cat hair; that was impressive. She was brilliant, but she wasn't… this. This wasn't a bookish woman; this was a whipcord strung to a fine tension, ready to flick down at the target (whatever that was). He couldn't tell why, not without more data. She was hard to read.

He remembered his thoughts as she'd walked out of sight in Diagon Alley, thinking that she was a weapon, the hardened shard that was left after the brittle bits had been broken off. _Very hard to read, indeed._

The silence built until she brought two cups of tea over. He wondered how she knew that he took sugar, but made note to remember that she took hers without.

"You have a Time Turner again, then?" he asked at last. He hadn't approved of it the first time, and he didn't think he approved of it this time. How long had it been going on? How many years had she added? What the hell was the old man up to?

"Of course," she said, but her voice lacked a certain smugness he had expected of a Gryffindor with a secret like that. In fact, there was almost no inflection, as if she was beyond caring about it. That made sense, he supposed, if she had added years to her age; even time travel would be old hat after that a few years of it.

"And…?"

"How long do you have?" She smirked again, and he caught himself smirking back; she was… a woman. And he liked women.

He hadn't liked Samantha Barnes. The beads and charms in her hair were stupid, distracting. And she'd had no history, no depth; she'd been a face in the meetings, a wand waiting to mend him somewhere in Edinburgh. He liked this Hermione Granger, though.

_Very strange._

"I am not expected back at the castle until after lunch tomorrow."

"We will need more tea," she said, flicking her wand. She also Summoned the brandy, pouring a generous dose into her mug and leaving the bottle for him. After a moment, he added a bit to his tea, but not much.

Alcohol had never been one of Severus's vices; it had been his father's sin.

"Well?"

"Much of the reason why I was sent back hasn't happened yet," she said. She looked down at her hands, and he saw that her left hand was horribly scarred. Not just brewing accidents, but stark white lines along each of the bones in her hand, a few running parallel to each other as though the same cut had been made after the first had closed.

_Legilimens_, he tried nonverbally, but found that her mind was cloaked in foggy clouds. He could see snatches of images, memories, but they were refracted in the droplets of fog and impossible to interpret. Large, dark shapes loomed in the fog, but he could never quite find them. She was very good.

When he stopped trying, he realized she was amused. He found himself caught between sheepish and annoyed. Thoroughly wrong-footed, he pretended as though nothing had happened, and after a moment she continued speaking.

"I can tell you that I first Turned back just before New Year of next year. I went back to the beginning of the summer and then stayed with Minerva. She tutored me for N.E.W.T.s. Then I Turned back to the same time and spent the summer in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts." She paused to sip her tea, frowning. "Dumbledore tutored me that time around, teaching me Occlumency and Legilimency in between revision. I took my N.E.W.T.s at the end of the summer with this year's seventh years who were unhappy with their scores."

"How did you do?" That was the next polite question, right?

"As predicted, really," she said. It was almost alarming to hear her so uncaring about the tests; she had been preparing for them for as long as she had known about them. Currently, there was a younger version of her at Hogwarts running around with color-coded study timetables for her O.W.L.s. "Nine of them. Outstandings in everything but History of Magic."

He smirked, refilling his cup. If all she was doing was studying and she didn't have Potter and Weasley to pester, it was no surprise she'd done well. "How did you manage nine?" Now that he thought about it, she was only going for eight O.W.L.s.

"I sat the Muggle Studies exam just because I could." She rolled her eyes at herself, which made him smile. She looked surprised at his smile, but only for a moment before it disappeared behind her polite façade.

He wanted to ask about her hand, but he didn't think it would be a good idea.

"I was in France for awhile. Did two Turns at the Library of Alexandria. I liked those, mostly. I was in Spain for awhile. Didn't like that one." A dark look passed over her face, and her scarred hand clenched into a fist.

"What did you study?" He particularly wanted to know what she'd studied in Spain.

"Healing. St. Mungo's offered me a job." She ran a hand along her braid, and he practically saw her remind herself to unclench the fist. "Runes. Enough fucking Arithmancy to get a mastery if I sat the evaluation." She rolled her eyes. He tried not to be startled at the language, but this was _Hermione Granger_. "I spent a lot of time researching in Alexandria, lots of different things, most of them variations on unpleasant—curse-breaking, antiquated stuff." She flexed her hand again when she caught him looking at it. Resigned, she said, "He paired me with Remy in Spain. Did you know Remy?"

"Remy Bird?"

"Yes."

"I do, I did. Is he dead?"

She pulled out a beautiful silver pocketwatch. The cover was engraved with a looping, swirly design that made the otherwise standard-looking watch somehow feminine. The watch must have displayed the date as well as the time, because she smirked after she looked at it. "My mistake. He has a few days left."

Severus looked at her. Remy Bird was not a nice man. Officially, he was a curse breaker, a very good one, but in his own time he enjoyed the Dark Arts. He'd been exiled from at least three countries for it. (He was good enough that they never had enough evidence to lock him up.) He was infamous for Muggle Fights—he locked witches and wizards in cages and starved them, then made them fight like Muggles, usually to the death. It was a sport. The fights drew crowds; he'd attended a few back when he had first taken the Dark Mark, and they had turned his stomach. People made bets on the fights, gathering around and shouting at their chosen gladiator.

Something clicked into place, and Severus grabbed her scarred hand, spreading it on the table to look at it, to feel the bones beneath the cuts. Yes; there they were. Little nubs of bone all through her hand that told of spell-healed breaks. It was a miracle she could move the hand.

He was almost sick, thinking about it.

"The—" he tried, but he couldn't think of a thing to say, a question to ask. "How did this happen?"

She continued to look resigned, keeping her eyes on her hand as she spoke instead of looking at him.

"I was with him for a month, learning from him, and then he got bored doing what Dumbledore had asked." She was vibrating with tension. He regretted asking her to tell him what he probably could have guessed. He wanted to tell her to stop, but he couldn't interrupt her. "Then one night after dinner he hauled me out of the shower and put me in a cage. I sat there for two days, wondering if it was more training, but I knew it wasn't. Dumbledore's methods can be harsh, but they aren't brutal.

"The first man I fought was twice my size. He was bruised from a recent fight, and that was the only reason I won. I had something to aim for."

Severus could picture it. A giant of a man circling the slip of a girl from his classroom. The combatants were always naked; that made it worse. The man would have used his size against her, his longer reach. She had been lucky, if the man had come from one fight into the ring with her.

"Every fight I won earned me a meal and a glass of water. There was one fight in the afternoon and one after dark. In between, I was in my cage. Sometimes, every couple of days, a bald wizard brought this stunted little wand it for me to use to heal myself; it was the shittiest wand I've ever seen in my life." Her hand was clenched again, the scars standing out vibrantly white against her skin, though her skin was almost as pale as the scars. "I was in the cages for two months before I had a chance to escape."

Now she spread her hand out on the table again, closer to him so he could see it better.

"They caught me. The men who worked for Remy." She glared into his eyes, then down at her hand. "They brought me to Remy, and he smashed my hand with the heel of his boot, ground his heel into each of my fingers, then yanked on them until the joints came out of socket." She took a deep, bracing breath. "And then they tied my other arm behind my back and sent me into the evening fight."

She'd won it, obviously, or she'd be dead.

"They let me heal my hand, then, with that stunted wand." He watched, transfixed, as her right hand traced the scars on the left, describing the path that the wand would have taken as it moved from bone to bone and joint to joint. "They sliced my hand open so I'd have a better view of the work to do. Then they watched me fix it. The bones in the palm, first. Then the longer bones in the fingers. The knuckles here, then the knuckles in the fingers. They inspected the bones through the cuts before they let me seal my hand up again."

She wasn't crying. She was telling it like it was some dry example in some Healing text she'd found doing research. Not even like it had happened to somebody else, but as if she'd read about it once in a book. The tea in his stomach was churning.

"I tried to escape again, but—" she traced the lines where the scars were parallel—"I wasn't successful then, either."

They had tortured her. Not that the fights weren't torture, forcing starving innocents to kill each other with bare hands. But this went beyond.

"But you tried one more time."

"Yes," she said, and this time she smirked. It was the sort of expression that made the blood run cold. It made him think of what she'd said, about how she'd been in the cages for months beating people to death with her fists twice a day. She'd have a kill count to rival his, and he'd brewed poisons for a psychopath for years. "It took another month for my opening, but I took it. I'll be taking it in about 30 hours, actually."

He looked at her. His eyes would be too wide, giving away his shock, his horror.

Somewhere in Spain, as he sat there drinking tea and brandy with her, Hermione Granger was locked in a cage. Or, more probably, in the stadium ring of the Muggle Fights.

"Did you kill Bird?"

"Yes," she said, eyes finally meeting his. She held his eyes as she spoke, voice devoid of emotion, humanity. "I killed my handler after the fight. They thought I'd lost my spark after that second attempt." Her fist clenched on the table, but he didn't look away from her eyes. She was beginning to transmit her memories to him, the experience leaking out from behind her Occlumency shields with the intensity of her recall. (A common side-effect of mind magic such as Occlumency was vivid recall; it was useful for viewing the memories of a spy in a Pensive, but less helpful when it came to letting painful membories blur around the edges.) He wanted to tell her to stop, that she didn't have to tell him, didn't have to relive it, but he didn't. "I stole his wand and I let the other fighters out. They ran. I used Fiendfyre to destroy the 'stadium' and all the spectators still settling their bets.

"Then I Apparated to Remy's house. He'd gotten bored watching me in the afternoon fights, understand. He made lots of money off me, but more so at night.

"He was at his dinner table. I cut his throat open with the cheese wire." In his mind's eye, he saw her memory of it. She was naked, covered in blood and bruises, hair matted to her head. The surprised look on Bird's handsome face when his brawler walked through the kitchen door. The noise he'd made as Granger dropped the wand inside the door and picked up the cheese wire off the counter. Blood everywhere, hot on her hands and chest, dripping down her body. "Then I went upstairs and gathered my things. And then I burned his house to ash."

The memory of the Fiendfyre hit him, and he closed his eyes, driving it out. She'd stood there on the isolated lawn, cleaned and clothed, holding her own wand for the first time in months, and she'd unleashed the cursed fire. It had burned so hot that the glass in the windows melted before the wooden frames finished burning.

"That will be Sunday," she said, drawing her hands off the table and into her lap. The kitchen grew a few degrees cooler as her Occlumency shields slammed back into place, her expression returning to the neutrality he'd seen before. "I have half a mind to go watch my own show."

She was… cold. Hard. She reminded him of himself, and not in a good way.

_What did Dumbledore do to you, girl?_

"I'm not a girl, Professor Snape," she said, and he startled. She'd heard the thought? Seen it in his mind? Had she been using Legilimency on him and he hadn't noticed? "I'm not what I was."

"Why?" he asked after a few minutes of silence, when he couldn't stand to sit at the table and not talk. "Why would he send you to Remy Bird?"

"I don't know," she said, and she almost sounded wistful. "I—" She sighed. "I understood why he sent me back to do my N.E.W.T.s, and the Healing. I understood the research in Egypt, and the seminar in Salem—Arithmancy's application in potioneering; it was fascinating." The aside was said with an actual grin aimed at him, eyes sparkling with intelligence for the briefest moment, reminding him of the previous summer, catching her in the Black family library. The look was over almost before it began, though. "But other things I didn't understand. He sent me to the Library at Alexandria twice. The first was for healing and curse-breaking research, which made sense, but the second was Dark Arts and folk tales. And then… Spain."

"He doesn't put all his eggs in one basket," Severus said, cursing the cliché the moment it left his lips.

"That could turn out to be a problem," she said darkly, looking him in the eye again. He nodded, and poured them both a little too much brandy in their teacups. She threw hers back like a shot and sat contemplating the wood grain, then got up and put the apron and gloves on again. He cleaned and put away the tea things while she finished the potion.

"Well," she said when she returned to the kitchen moments later. The Wolfsbane would steep for ten hours after that last step, and then it would be bottled. "Anything else you'd like to talk about?"

He raised an eyebrow. If she'd asked him about a scar, particularly a scar with such a sordid backstory, he would have left without telling her any of it, not asked if he wanted to drag out any more skeletons.

"I'm supposed to go speak with the headmaster tonight," she said. She looked… annoyed. "He's checking in with me—on me. It's a… result… of 'that debacle after Spain.'" She did a remarkable impression of Dumbledore at his driest. "I went off the grid for awhile. He has my calendar book with everywhere and everywhen I've been, but I'm the one who filled it in. I left bits out. He didn't realize it until we met up again at the beginning of the month and I was years older than he thought I'd be." She scrubbed tired hands across her face. "So now I get to meet with him every week. To talk."

"He likes a… tight leash," Severus said. He'd almost said 'short leash,' but that wasn't true. Albus Dumbledore was adept at setting people about doing his bidding, sending them far and wide and expecting them to do as they were told. Except. apparently, Hermione Granger.

_My collar is beginning to chafe_. The thought came to him, clear from her mind, and he blinked at her. She looked away when she realized a thought had escaped, like his had earlier. She didn't say anything.

"I know I don't have all the information," she said, speaking to the kettle instead of him. "I trust him. I don't have to like him." Now, she did look at him. "I do as he says."

He didn't break eye contact, now that he had it. "As do I," he said.

They studied each other. She was intelligent and cynical, obviously dedicated to the war and to Dumbledore's mission. Beautiful. He actually liked her.

And _that _could turn out to be a problem.

"It's going to get worse," she said after awhile.

"What?"

"All this." She gestured around them, meaning the world, the war. "It's going to get worse. Worse than Dumbledore had planned for, even."

That thought chilled him to the bone.

* * *

**AN: Just so everybody's on the same page, this chapter is set in September 1995 (so the beginning of fifth year, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix). Hermione has finished her over-use of the Time Turner, acquired the training/knowledge Dumbledore wanted her to get (and then some). Just FYI.**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	5. Chapter Four

When Hermione wasn't working at the apothecary or waiting around her flat for Professor Snape to arrive broken and bleeding (though he'd yet to do that), she was in the office space she kept downtown. In the beginning, she'd rented the space for a reason to leave the flat; now there simply wasn't enough room for all the papers and research spread over every surface anywhere but the office.

It was a three-room suite. The door opened on a smallish room meant to be a waiting room, and there was a door directly opposite that led to the main office space, a larger room with a narrow widnow in the middle of the back wall. Off the office was a tiny pocket of a bathroom.

The office room had a big desk, book shelves, and a few filing cabinets. The waiting room had a low couch on one wall (which she'd spent the night on more times that she cared to admit), a sturdy work table against the wall by the door, chalkboards on every wall, and a low table that had a tendency to accumulate scraps of paper.

These rooms were a haven. Different from her flat; she didn't _live_ here. She worked here. This was her work, the culmination of all the damn research and scars. The first thing she'd done, after she'd realized Horcrux research was pointless, was put together a folio for Professor Snape when the time was right. Theory for him to reference when Dumbledore was cursed, most of it based in actual results that hadn't happened yet. When that was finished, or as finished as it would ever be (she was forever pulling it out again to add footnotes and amendments), she developed an arithmantic algorithm to estimate how decisions and actions would affect the future as she knew it would play out, how her time travel would influence things. It was fascinating from the angle of theory and academic discussion, and she desperately hoped that one day, once she caught up to her own time stream, she'd be able to publish.

The chalkboards were covered in equations, some of it from the algorithm some of it from other quandaries.

Hermione sighed and shuffled her papers around on her desk. She couldn't focus. Worse, she couldn't figure out _why_ she couldn't focus, which made it even more difficult to focus.

She sighed again and went into the other room, cradling her tumbler to her chest. She drank too much, she knew, but it was the one vice she allowed herself. And she'd cut back a lot since the Order had reconvened.

Dumbledore had sent her to kill somebody else last night. Edward Barr, of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Searching his mind before slitting his throat had revealed a plot to murder Fudge, though it was a horrible plan. She had a feeling Barr had been set up, given the task of planning to kill the Minister so that, if a different Death Eater plot failed, he could be thrown into the mix.

That she was constantly sent after toadies and useless non-Death Eaters was frustrating. She couldn't tell if Dumbledore was trying to eliminate them before they became larger problems, or if he was having her act on bad information to prove Professor Snape's loyalty. Either way, it ate at her.

Forcing her thoughts away from the constant guilt of the killing, that gnawing remorse that had lived in her guts since she'd brought down that first bruised giant of a man in the Muggle Fights, Hermione flicked her wand at the nearest chalkboard, calling up her latest numbers. She was in the middle of inputting every single detail she could think of, working in equation upon equation into one enormous matrix. She had the war broken down into individual players, the individuals grouped together and connected by as many streams of loyalty as she knew existed, and the groups connected to other groups similarly. It was a mess, and a headache.

\\\

There was another meeting that afternoon. A smaller gathering, considering it was the middle of the work day. Mrs. Weasley was there, but not Mr. Weasley. Mad-Eye, but not Kingsley or Tonks. Black, but not Lupin. Dumbledore, but nobody else from Hogwarts.

Hermione took a seat at the table, thanking Mrs. Weasley for the tea that appeared in front of her. She sipped it, hating what Dumbledore made her do.

What she'd told Professor Snape was true: She didn't have to like Dumbledore, she just had to do as he said, and she'd decided on the day she'd given him the schedule book that she would do what he told her to do.

Pushing the ever-present ruminations aside, Hermione unfolded the bit of parchment Dumbledore had given her the moment she'd walked into the kitchen. She hadn't decided yet if he'd made her his assassin as a punishment or if it was simply a matter of convenience. She'd learned to live with the guilt, after all. (Mostly.)

_Walden McNair_, the parchment said, Dumbledore's loopy script well familiar by now. His address was written beneath his name, a flat not far from Godric's Hollow.

She put the parchment in her pocket, and looked up to see Professor Snape taking the seat directly opposite her. His eyes flicked up from where they'd been focused on her hand and the parchment, and he raised an eyebrow. She raised an eyebrow back, had a sip of tea (wishing it had something stronger mixed in), and looked away from him at Dumbledore.

"I _beg_ your pardon!" Professor Snape snapped, and Hermione realized that she'd let her attention drift from the meeting. She glanced up and down the table, mildly surprised to see Mad-Eye and Black looking a bit sick. "Headmaster, some of us have more pressing tasks than—"

"This is important, my boy," Dumbledore said benignly, waving his hands. There was a joviality in him that made Hermione distinctly uncomfortable, especially considering the name on the parchment in her pocket. "We are recruiting."

"_Who_." It wasn't a question, it was a mocking sneer of a word.

"Horace, of course."

Hermione's heart plummeted, and she rehashed her mental count-down for when she would have to speak to Dumbledore about Horcruxes. If he was making plans to recruit Horace Slughorn, he was thinking that the retired (for now) professor might know something. He'd thought so her sixth year; he'd had Harry ingratiating himself with the infuriating "collector" of movers and shakers, as her father called them.

_Perhaps this is how he retrieved the altered memory Harry mentioned._

Of course, she hadn't been paying attention and it took a bit of creative listening (and perhaps a bit of Legilimency) to learn that Dumbledore had managed an open invitation to Slughorn's annual Christmas party.

\\\

At dusk, she changed her clothes. No Muggle clothes, and not her usual comfortable robes. Dragonhide boots, spelled leather pants, her belt with its many pouches of useful things, a plain cotton tanktop beneath and dragonhide vest. Hands and wrists wrapped in leather stips, her hair pulled back and pinned down ruthlessly. She left when dusk morphed into nightfall.

McNair was a low-ranking flunky with the Department for Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures. He was the one who had been sent to kill Buckbeak. She hadn't known he was a Death Eater then, but it didn't surprise her now. Apparantly, he was fairly close friends with Dolores Umbridge, too.

He had rudimentary wards on his flat. The sort that told her that he didn't think there was serious threat to his person, him either being too good to need the protection of wards or too important to be attacked. He was the worst sort of thug—the sort that didn't realize he was only a thug.

His wards spun out in front of her, an invisible nimbus of spells and runes. He hadn't placed them himself, to his detriment. It was easier to dismantle them, easier to patch her own spells in and rewrite sections of his. When she was finished, the flat recognized her as if she lived there; the wards wouldn't alert him to her presence since her presence wasn't remarkable.

McNair arrived drunk two hours later. The sour feeling that rose to her gullet at the sight of his inebriated stumbling was easy enough to push down, though she knew it would revisit her later. She Occluded, watched him.

Taller than her but not as tall as Snape—when had _he _become the one she measured height against?—and not as broad as Snape, either. His life since the death of the Potters had been easy, and he was soft around the middle the way over-muscled men tend to go once they hit middle age or stop lifting weights.

The executioner went down too quickly for her to feel good about herself, though she never felt good about herself no matter how many hits it took. A boot to the family jewels, bringing his face closer to her level where it was easier to punch. She smashed his nose with her right fist, then brought the knuckles of her left fist to his temple. He fell, moaned, rolled over, tried to rise, puked instead.

She bound him, then looked into his eyes. "_Legilmens_."

The waitress from some bar down Knockturn Alley. Sitting at a long table in a dimly-lit room, chatting to a nervous-looking Terence Higgs while they waited for something. The breasts of the waitress from the Knockturn Alley bar. An office at the Ministry dominated by a large axe, which McNair sharpened with smooth, practiced strokes of a whetstone.

He didn't know anything worthwhile. He was a thug in all aspects of his life; only his family name had led to his inclusion as a Marked Death Eater.

She used her cheese wire, still with her from Spain (at first to remind herself that she was free and away, that she had triumphed and lived, and now because it was useful and familiar, grounding in the messy horror that Dumbledore set her to more and more regularly), putting a knee in the small of his back and jerking his head back to her with the wire. It sunk through his flesh quickly, easier than cutting through a hard cheddar block, and then caught on his spine. If she forced it, really yanked, sawed back and forth a bit, she could get the wire through the bone, but she didn't need to do that. Instead, she stepped away and rolled him over.

McNair weakly struggled, hands fluttering about. He knew he was dying, but his body didn't know it was dead. She ignored the terror in his eyes, the surprise, the panic when he realized he couldn't breathe. Instead she fought with the wire, jerking it out of the flesh. It was messy.

When the wire was free, wrapped up again and put back on her belt to be cleaned later, she did a quick but thorough tour of his flat. There was always the chance that he had something he didn't know he had. But he didn't; no luck this time.

She burned the flat, gutted it with Fiendfyre. It was a tricky thing to do, to remove just his flat and leave the rest of the building structurally sound, but she'd had plenty of practice.

* * *

Severus didn't know what to say to her the next time he saw her. Luckily, he'd been late (as usual), and he hadn't had to think of anything for before the meeting. He'd sat across from her, watched her glare at a bit of parchment, wondered what that was all about—and then the stupid Christmas party. As if they were all part of the Slug Club of old.

_Fucking goddamn it all to Perdition_.

He'd spent much of the time between their last conversation and the meeting thinking about her story—picking it apart to no end, eventually focusing on the overriding fact that things must truly go from bad to worse in the next year for Dumbledore to put Hermione Granger (Gryffindor golden girl, the brightest witch of her age, somebody so close and important to Harry sodding Potter) through that hell. And then that stupid Christmas party.

He'd been part of the Slug Club his seventh year at Hogwarts. Lucius had, of course, been part of the Club since his fourth year. Lily had joined their fifth year. Severus had resented being asked to join by the time he'd been invited, but the fact that James Potter hadn't received an invitation had soothed his pride. (Of course, Lily brought him along as her date whenever she could, so it wasn't quite as nice as he'd imagined.)

His Head of House had been awful when it came to playing favorites, and the worst part about it was that he picked his favorites from any House. The scrawny, ugly boy with a Muggle surname didn't merit much attention at all, even if it was his duty as Head of House to look after him. No, that had fallen to Poppy Pomfrey for years. He'd been in trouble too often for Slughorn to realize he was also clever. His ambitions had never quite lined up with the sort that Slughorn looked for in those he "collected."

Still stewing about the upcoming party—any instance where he'd see Horace Slughorn was a cause for dread—he grumped his way through the week's staff meeting.

\\\

It was late evening on a Tuesday. Minerva had left the caslte before dinner, claiming an appointment with a dear old friend for dinner, and he'd left shortly after dinner without giving much of an explanation at all. The toad would not suspect they shared a destination.

Looking for Minerva, he came upon Granger in the library. He shouldn't have been surprised—when was Hermione Granger not in a library, given the opportunity?—but he was. She wore full robes and looked comfortable in them, which was somehow odd. A deep orange-red dress, loose and flowing, beneath a rich brown over-robe belted at the waist by a wide blue-beaded band. Her hair was the usual riot of messy curls, a bit braided beneath her left ear and hung with a silver crescent moon, colored beads at the back of her head, a shiny black feather caught at the back of her collar. The colors suited her, as did the cut of the robes, and she looked very much like herself and very, very different.

"You are staring, Professor," she said, snapping him out of his observation. She didn't look up at him, didn't move. She sat in the threadbare wingback armchair, its upholstery once Slytherin green, like a queen, legs crossed at the knees. She looked like autumn personified.

"Rodrigez is hardly worth reading," he informed her instead of responding to her accusation.

"Yes," she agreed, surprising him. In his experience, Miss Granger took any printed word as law. "But it is difficult to properly refute his inadequacy without first taking an inventory of it."

Still she didn't look up from her book, which was a good thing because she would have caught him smiling.

"You are wasting your time."

"Luckily time is one thing I have in abundance."

He conceded the point by not saying anything else. He walked to the nearest shelf and chose a book at random, then sat in the wingback across from hers and made himself as comfortable as it was possible to be on the lumpy thing.

They passed the hour leading up to the meeting in companionable silence. Twice, Granger snorted and read lines from her book—one of the standards of advanced arithmantic theory—so that they could share in mocking the author.

They were so distracted by the fool—Rodrigez had never once thought to _apply_ his theories before publishing them—that they were almost late to the gathering in the kitchen. They ended up standing next to the fireplace. They weren't standing together, but they were quite obviously apart from the rest of the Order.

\\\

Severus was late to the next meeting, just three days later. He'd been Summoned before dinner, had left the school without giving word (because he really didn't give a shit, when it came down to it). The Dark Lord wanted information about the Hall of Prophesy and all the Order was doing to guard it. Lucius had already given him the details of the Ministry's measures.

Severus hadn't known anything. As such, his hands trembled, just slightly, from the Cruciatus Curse. The Dark Lord had cast it on him for only a few seconds—he'd counted. Just long enough to knock him flat, remind him who was the master, and give him the slightest tremor to show his other master.

He stepped into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place and strengthened his Occlumency shields when everybody at the table went quiet. It was a smaller gathering than usual—the headmaster, Minerva, Black, Lupin, Moody, Shacklebolt, Granger. They sat at the near end of the table, a tea tray as their centerpiece.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, raising a hand in a half-wave of welcome, gesturing to the seat next to Lupin, across from Granger. The beads and feather were gone today in favor of a loose ponytail, curls escaping to dangle around her ears. She wore a simpler robe this time, flat slate gray linen over a white Muggle button-up shirt and dark purple jumper; he couldn't see the rest of her but he'd guess she wore blue jeans. She looked him over with a Healer's eye, and brushed his shields with her mind. He tried to ignore her. "Join us."

Severus nodded, deliberately not apologizing for his tardiness.

"Everything alright?" Lupin asked diplomatically. Granger pulled a long vial out of a vest pocket it shouldn't have fit in and put a splash of its wickedly green contents in a cup of tea, which she passed to him. He scowled but took a sip; the muscle relaxant would help with the tremors, though the only thing that would really stop them was sleep. The Cruciatus Curse fucked with the nervous system, and one of the side effects was twitching and mis-firing nerves; the muscle relaxant merely made the twitches and spasms smaller and less noticeable.

"Nothing has changed," Severus said, addressing the headmaster instead of Lupin. The werewolf had always been the most tolerable of the Marauders. He could feel some sympathy for the natural outsider, but not much when it came down to it. The man had chosen his friends, and his friends were assholes. Also there was the issue of his trying to kill Severus when they were at Hogwarts, no matter that he hadn't been in his right mind at the time. They would never be friends.

"Do you know of any changes on the part of the Ministry where the Department of Mysteries is concerned, Severus?" Dumbledore asked. His eyes weren't twinkling; he didn't look like a benevolent grandfather. This was his war room and they were his council.

"I do not."

Granger made a note, and he almost smiled when he saw that she was using a Muggle ink pen on parchment. She wasn't taking the minutes for the meeting, though; nobody did that (too risky should the minutes ever leave headquarters). The parchment was covered in runes and equations; she was playing probabilities against each other, if he wasn't mistaken.

They talked in circles for awhile. The Ministry continued to deny the return of the Dark Lord, and therefore would not increase the protection on the all-important prophesy. The Dark Lord was desperate to know the missing bits, to know everything he could about his adversary (as if a teenaged boy could truly be so complex), and the Order was doing its level best to keep the information from him. Guard schedules outside the Department of Mysteries, most of the Order on the rotation, and everybody with their ears to the ground for news of the Dark Lord's latest plan to gain information.

It had been such since the Dark Lord's return. The Dark Lord was rebuilding his forces, sending emissaries far and wide. Meanwhile, his Death Eaters at home were laying low, prodding at the Department of Mysteries with varying levels of success. There would be an attack every now and again, a revel even less frequently.

Severus was contemplating the uselessness of these meetings when the storm that had been threatening when he arrived finally broke. Thunder filled the air, rattled the windows, and then the hard patter of the rain.

"That will be all for tonight, I think," Dumbledore said, recalling himself after a moment staring at the rain against the window. "Samantha, would you be so kind as to help Severus finish off the list down in the cellar?"

"Of course, Headmaster."

And then they were alone together in the cellar laboratory. It was too bright for a basement room, as far as he was concerned. The whitewashed walls seemed to bounce the light back and around, refusing to allow shadows to form the way they should.

"Are you hurt?" she asked the moment the door was closed behind them. He raised an eyebrow at her and turned his back, glancing down the list—just more of the usual potions for the Order—and selecting a small silver cauldron from the shelf.

They brewed in silence. Companionable silence, like when they'd read together in the library.

As he crushed beetle carapace in the stone mortar, he contemplated the witch he watched out of the corner of his eye. She was indeed wearing Muggle blue jeans, as he'd expected. And the dragonhide boots he'd seen before. She was deft in her brewing, her motions practiced and unhurried. As his student she was—had been?—twitchy, always checking the recipe, double-checking the amount for each ingredient. In this cellar lab, she was confident and her potions always came out well. She'd never be a Potions Mistress; she didn't take to the cauldron naturally by any means. She was a dab hand at following instructions, though.

He finished his potions before she did. It had been hours, and the house above them was quiet. For the longest time, the only noise had been the bubbling of their cauldrons and the soft flow of liquid when one of them stirred a potion. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so relaxed in the presence of another person.

At long last, he turned to look at her. She'd removed her robe at some point. He'd done the same; it was hot in the cellar with so many cauldrons going. She wore her gloves for the last stages of her potion, keeping the toxic juices she was handling from coming into contact with her skin.

Unthinking, he stepped up behind her and adjusted her hair. She'd stuck it full of pins when they'd started brewing, holding the loose tendrils out of her way. One side of it was threatening to slip out of place, though, and it would likely flop over the cauldron and drop stray hairs, ruining the lot.

"Thank you," she said, turning her head a bit so that he could fix the pin back in place more easily. He did so and stepped away, wondering just what the hell he had been thinking. Yes, it was a wise action, but why had he just put his hands in her hair? Why hadn't he just used a spell?

Her hair was soft. A bit dry in its wispiness, but soft nonetheless.

"These are expensive ingredients," he said to cover for his… what? Gaff? Yes, it had been a gaff. "It wouldn't do to go ruining a perfectly adequate potion by getting hair in it at this stage."

"You know," she said a moment later, turning around to look at him properly once she'd extinguished the flame under her cauldron—standard pewter size four—to let the mixture cool, "I think that might be the first time I've ever heard you praise one of my potions."

He raised an eyebrow at her again. "I _drink_ the potions you brew, Granger." Did she have any idea what that meant? He was a Potions Master; he hadn't consumed a potion brewed by anybody other than himself (and, once, Dumbledore) since he was twenty years old.

"It's still nice to hear it." She looked sheepish, and he noted that the pin he'd adjusted had ended up in the wrong spot, leaving the curls closer on the left side of her head than on the right side. It was a surprisingly charming look on her.

"You were—and are, as it were—the best in your year. Easily," he told her, folding his arms across his chest and looking down at her. It was a small room and the arrangement of the shelving and the tables meant that they were standing quite close. She came up to his chin, barely. That put her at just barely average height for a woman. "I could hardly say so with Draco Malfoy in the room, now could I?"

"I didn't say I didn't understand _why_ you never said anything," she said, mimicking his posture and staring right back at him. He noted that she'd undone the top few buttons on her shirt in the heat of the room, as far as the scooped neck of the purple jumper would allow, and that crossing her arms under her breasts as she had made the shirt gap open just enough to reveal a tantalizing bit of cleavage. "I just said it was a novel experience, hearing it."

Severus sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes to force himself to stop looking down her shirt.

"I—"

"Most of the recipes here have been modified, haven't they?"

"What?" Then, before she could repeat the question, "Yes."

"I thought so. I swear, I spent hours comparing these cards with the instructions from my old textbooks. You're a genius, you know that? Here, tell me about this." Eagerly, she flipped through the index and pulled out his Calming Draught formula. "Did you use the Erikson-Willis Formulation? Why do you put the chamomile in whole instead of chopped? And how the hell did you come up with the idea to use cool ceramics?"

"Language, Granger," he said, not sure which question he wanted to answer first. The simple fact that she knew to ask about the Erikson-Willis Formulation was reason enough to answer the questions; she'd be able to grasp the answers.

She smirked at him, nudging his elbow with hers, and waited for his answers.

\\\

Granger had shared her Time Turner with him. Their conversation had carried them from the cellar lab to the Black family library, and had only ended when the first light of dawn had flooded through a window.

"Let's cheat, then," she'd said, pulling the Time Turner on its long chain from somewhere in the depths of her shirt. "We'll get a good night's rest despite our assignments."

And the library had blurred, and he'd felt the world tilt alarmingly on its axis for the space of a few breaths, and then it was still and quiet again. Granger removed the chain from his neck, her delicate fingers brushing against his nape as she did so. Her hand was warm. Then the Time Turner was away and she grinned cheekily at him. For the space of a moment, she was the picture of her younger self, eyes light, hair a nest from the hours over a cauldron, small and smiling.

They listened as the meeting broke up downstairs. Somebody, probably Black, trudged up to the top floors. The front door opened and closed several times. Then it was quiet.

"I'll see you next time, then," Granger said. The youthful look was gone, replaced by the slumped shoulders of an adult who should have known better than to pull an all-nighter, but there was still some _invigoration_ in her eyes that made him uncomfortable. Their discussion had left him... invigorated too.

"Good night, Miss Granger."

"Oh, please," she said, looking both amused and annoyed. "You sound like you're about to give me detention."

He raised an eyebrow, not sure how else to respond.

"Call me Hermione, or Granger, or Barnes, or Sam. Preferably not Barnes or Sam, though."

Thoroughly wrong-footed without really knowing why, Severus turned on his heel and left the library, silently descending to the main level and marching out the door. He Disapparated to the gates of Hogwarts, where he made a slow walk of it across the grounds.

It was strange to walk past Hagrid's hut without smoke piping out the chimney, without the benign half-giant raising a hand in hello.

_Good Lord, I can't do this_, he thought, jerking his shoulders back as he came within sight of the castle. He walked with purpose, though all he wanted to do was meander and hunch his shoulders.

He found Dumbledore in the entrance hall, laughing at some parting joke from the Fat Friar as the Hufflepuff ghost drifted cheerily off through the wall. The portrait he passed through grimaced, though it surely couldn't feel the cold.

"Severus! You're back earlier than I expected."

"Well. Two sets of hands, you know. We put time to good use."

Dumbledore smirked knowingly.

"I wonder if I could speak to you a moment, Headmaster."

"Of course. Walk with me."

They walked in silence. Severus slowed his pace to match the headmaster's and watched the portraits as they walked. The portraits looked silently, sometimes sullenly, back. The faces were all familiar, though he didn't know the names of many of them.

Finally, they reached the headmaster's office. Instead of sitting at his desk, Dumbledore continued through the arch behind it and took a seat on the couch in a small sitting room cum observatory—there was the couch and a few chairs, several tall and narrow bookcases, and the outer wall entirely windows with an excellent view of the grounds.

"What would you like to talk about?" Dumbledore asked, only the lack of a twinkle in his eye suggesting he knew the conversation wasn't going to be about the latest purchase order forms from the apothecary concerning ingredients for the Potions curriculum.

"Hermione Granger."

_You can't bloody do this to her. She's the brightest witch of her age and you sent her back and back and back, and you've turned her into something entirely different._

"Ah. I see."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"You are concerned about her."

The second eyebrow joined the first. _Just where do you think my concerns lie, old man?_

"She… isn't right for this, Headmaster," Severus said.

"What makes you say that? I think she had performed admirably. She is a competent brewer. And she is a more than competent Healer, which is what matters."

_I've seen her three times and already consider her a friend. She is a student._

"I feel it would be less suspect if I were to go to Poppy, as I was. I am a teacher and she is the school Healer; it is what is appropriate."

The headmaster appraised him, calculating, and Severus held himself carefully neutral.

"Poppy Pomfrey is a wonderful Healer, but she is not a member of the Order."

"Neither is Hermione Granger."

"Samantha Barnes is, though."

"Samantha Barnes does not exist."

"Why the sudden concern? I realize you are more familiar with Poppy, but surely you can see why Miss Granger is the better choice?"

_More familiar with Poppy_, Severus mocked in his head, only just keeping himself from rolling his eyes. _Perhaps on more familiar terms, yet I just spent six hours _talking _to Granger without noting a single hour's passage. _

"It came to mind tonight while we were brewing," he said, only half evasive. "You're right, she's a competent brewer. And she is a dab hand with the arithmancy. I think she'd be better put to use in those fields for the Order, especially considering Poppy is at hand."

"It is not safe for you to return to the school, battered and bleeding, as often as you were before Miss Granger was available."

_It isn't healthy for me to be battered and bleeding as often as I am_, Severus thought petulantly. But he knew the argument, if it could be called such, was over.

"I wish this was over, Headmaster," he said instead of pressing his point. He rubbed a tired hand over gritty eyes, fully aware that he'd been awake for the last thirty hours.

"I know, my boy," Dumbledore said more gently than he'd said anything in the last few years. It almost hurt, because Severus wanted it to be comforting. It was a manipulation, though. "Not so much longer, I don't think. A year at least. Maybe a few months more."

_Lately, I just hope I survive the night._

He nodded and departed the office, trying to not think the second half of the thought: _But most nights end with Hermione, so they are more tolerable than most in the past decade._

* * *

**AN: Just to clarify a few things on Dumbledore that have come up in the reviews—Dumbledore set Snape up to realize "Sam Barnes" was Hermione because he figured Snape hated her because she was a student/Gryffindor/Harry-supporter. He put a wedge(or aimed to) between Snape and Poppy because he saw them growing closer, and he needed Snape to feel alienated: A Snape on his own is more vicious and a more effective spy than a Snape with somebody to talk to about his woes and possibly come to terms with some of the hatefulness and resentment he constantly has to evoke and harbor and overplay as a Death Eater. So he throws Hermione at him assuming she'll set him off, which she does, but she's changed so much from the student Snape hated that he actually ends up liking her. (Dumbledore doesn't see that different Hermione, of course; he has a very solid picture of her in his mind from what he learned about her when he taught her Occlumency, and she kept back the most traumatizing of her experiences while Turning because she resented him for them happening.)**

**… This all isn't going to be explained in-text, because it's all coming about from our characters not realizing what they're withholding from each other, and they can't see Dumbledore's angle well enough to more than guess at his motivations. (Hell, there's a bit in the next chapter in which Hermione completely lands off the mark on Dumbledore's motives.) But since it came up in the reviews, I thought I'd explain it. I spent too much time thinking about it when I wrote all this out to let it not come into play, after all.**

**Also, thank you so much for the reviews! They kind of make my day, seeing people responding to a story that's been in my head constantly. I smile every time I open up my email and see them waiting for me.**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	6. Chapter Five

Hermione returned to her flat, focusing on her mental shields. She'd just been to see Dumbledore, given her report, talked over every detail—she couldn't decide if he wanted the details because he thought it would help her deal with all of it or if he wanted to be sure she wasn't trying to keep things from him. All the reports made her want to do was close herself up in her bedroom and scream.

The worst part was that he had brought her to this intentionally. She'd been doing this for months now; he'd known what she'd become before he sent her back. Whatever he'd thought of it the first time she'd Turned back to his office, or when she'd given him the completed calendar book, this was the result and he had never wavered.

At night, when she released her Occlumency shields, when she knew the neighbors wouldn't hear her because she had too many wards around her bedroom, she cried for it, and she screamed at the injustice, and she waited for dawn to come and bring her more of the same.

She stopped when she entered the flat and realized that Snape was on her kitchen table. There was a bloody smear on the floor, probably from a fall, and a smudged handprint (also bloody, of course) on the counter where he'd hoisted himself back up.

A moment of panic, quickly suppressed.

"Professor Snape?"

He moaned and twitched, but otherwise didn't respond. The nearer of his legs was covered in blood from the thigh down, and when she entered the kitchen she could see that a large section above his knee was a mess of red meat.

"What happened?" she asked, dropping her things on the counter by the sink and drawing her wand from its sheath on her left arm.

"Did a stasis," Snape ground out, gesturing to his thigh.

Hermione stepped up to his side, flicking her wand to move the chairs out of her way. She had a look at his thigh, conjuring gauze to dab away some of the blood around the wound. She could see the bone through the torn flesh. Snape had applied the magical equivalent of a tourniquet and, judging from the bluish residue, a paste to numb the area, but nothing further. She started swearing under breath as she lifted the stasis and began putting him to rights.

"Language, Granger," he muttered. She couldn't tell if he was trying to be funny or if he was delirious.

It took twenty minutes, meticulously going layer by layer. Meat and muscle and tendon, vein and artery. Finally the skin, using a dropper to apply Essence of Dittany. There would be scarring, but not much. And the whole thigh would ache for a few days, but then that would be the end of it.

She left him to recover his breath with a Blood Replenishing Potion in his hand, turning to her things by the sink.

Dumbledore had sent her for an official in Magical Transportation at the Ministry, recently Marked. She didn't use the Killing Curse; that wasn't the way she worked. She used the cheese wire and the knife that fit into the sheath with her wand. Both were bloody, and needed to be cleaned. She needed a good cleaning, too, but that could wait. This time, she hadn't been hurt too badly; she'd be bruised and there were a few scratches to heal, but those hardly counted.

It would probably be in the papers in the morning.

As meticulously as she'd mended Snape, Hermione cleaned her gear. Dumbledore might send her a new name in five minutes, or it could be weeks before he gave her the slip of paper with a name and address. Either way, she had to be ready.

The wash rag was red immediately when she started on the wire. She wiped it down, rinsed the rag, repeated the process. When it was clean, she took the leather pouch where she stored it off her belt and cleaned that, too. She dried both with a nonverbal wandless spell, then coiled the wire so that the small wooden handles on each end were together, and put her garrote in the pouch.

Then the knife. She took the sheath off her arm, setting her wand next to the sink. The knife didn't get used as often, but tonight she'd blooded it. He'd wriggled out of her grasp and she'd thrown the knife into his back to get him under control before she opened his throat with the cheese wire. She cleaned it and the sheath, then sharpened the knife on the small whetstone she kept in her kit before putting it all away and replacing the sheath with knife and wand on her arm.

"You're it," Snape said from the kitchen table. She almost flinched, having forgotten he was there. Instead, she turned the twitch into a shrug. "The Dark Lord calls you Dumbledore's dragon."

"Dragon?" she asked skeptically. It was fitting, though.

"Targets burned beyond comprehension, the entire house precisely obliterated." The words weren't said harshly, but Hermione still twitched. She didn't like doing it, but Dumbledore told her to and so she did. "They tried to find the people on the first few, tried to track them down wherever they'd got to because there were no bodies in the fire."

"Just ash."

"Just ash," he echoed. She wanted to look at him, to see his face, but she was afraid her thoughts would leak over to him the way that had the last time they'd talked like this.

"They die before the fire," she said, not sure why she was saying it. He hadn't asked. She didn't owe him the story, or a report. It was like when she'd told him about the Fights, though. She hadn't had to. There had been no reason to; he'd guessed most of it, anyway. Admittedly, some of that telling had been to watch his reaction and to gain his trust (Dumbledore had thrown them together and expected it to work; she knew Snape wouldn't consent to her taking care of him until he knew she was worth her salt); but, also, she couldn't stop once she'd started. "We need to be absolutely certain they die, they don't Apparate away from the fire or use a Portkey or the Floo."

"That makes sense."

She turned to him, spinning on her heel, glaring. None of it made sense. Dumbledore was supposed to be the leader of the opposition, the leader of the "good guys." He wasn't supposed to send somebody out to kill people, even "bad guys," in their homes where they thought they were safe.

"I kill them, and then I burn their homes around them before their bodies can cool. When the fire is done, there is no evidence, nothing left," Hermione said, voice flat. "As you said, I obliterate them."

She didn't know what Snape was going to say. He was sitting on the table with his injured thigh stretched down the length of it, and he drew breath to say _something_ just as Dumbledore walked through the door. The two of them froze like children caught planning to smuggle sweets into their bedrooms.

"Headmaster," she said eventually, nodding to him, wondering what the hell he was doing at her flat when she'd seen him not an hour previously at Hogwarts.

"Hermione, Severus," Dumbledore said, nodding to them. He wasn't smiling, wasn't twinkling, and that was significant. "I am glad you are both here. I only discovered you'd left the castle a moment ago, Severus. I was worried."

"No need, Headmaster," Snape said, his voice bland. Hermione carefully didn't react; there was just as much statement in the blandness as there was in the headmaster's lack of twinkle. "The Healer you've provided patched me up."

She looked at his thigh, noting the new pink skin where it had been raw. She almost felt insulted—'the Healer you've provided.' _Arse_, she groused to herself, looking away from both of them so that she didn't inadvertently share her thoughts. _I'd like to see you do better. Hell, I'd like to see you find _anybody_ who could do better._

Since he'd figured out who she was, he'd alternated between looking down his nose at her, ignoring her, and engaging in fascinating conversation. It was like trying to talk to a hurricane—pushed one way one moment, sucked in the next, and constantly spinning end over end. She wondered if he just wasn't sure how to talk to her because there was a younger version of her waiting back at the castle, or if he was just like that. He'd always been prickly.

The headmaster nodded sagely, glancing from one of them to the other. Hermione's stomach dropped, familiar dread creeping up on her.

"Hermione," he finally said, conjuring himself a plush chair and getting comfortable. "If I told you to kill me, how would you do it?"

"Sir?"

"How would you do it?" He looked at her over steepled fingers, eyes deadly serious. Snape was in her peripheral, just as still. He hadn't moved from the spot on the kitchen table.

"I would do nothing," she said. The headmaster opened his mouth to speak, to protest her non-answer, but she held up a hand. "You will understand before the year is out, sir. But if you asked me to kill you, all I would have to do is stand back and let you die. Do nothing."

Dumbledore nodded sagely, as if she'd solved an arithmancy puzzle particularly well. "And yourself?"

She narrowed her eyes, but answered. "I would take Polyjuice Potion and wear Harry Potter's face to Malfoy Manor. They would take me to Voldemort, and he would do the killing for me." She forced herself to unclench her fists. "That would buy Harry time." She couldn't tell them what Harry needed the time for yet because Dumbledore hadn't been cursed yet, hadn't confirmed the Horcruxes yet.

"And Severus? How would you kill him?"

She blinked. Her brain provided several options—Fiendfyre, the Killing Curse, her knife—but none of them would only kill him. He was formidable, he'd defend himself, and it wouldn't be clean.

"I would poison myself," she said, intensifying her Occlumency. She didn't want any more leakages, especially not now, not when her conscious was rebelling against this mind game so vehemently. It had been a long time since it had spoken up, an even longer time since she'd had to focus to suppress it. "And when he came to me with the antidote, I would open his throat."

The silence hung in the room like a fog, making the air too thick. Hermione wanted desperately to be alone behind her wards. She needed to scream.

"What point are you trying to make?" Snape growled from the table. Dumbledore shifted his focus from Hermione to Snape, smiling benevolently.

"You protested that she wasn't right for this. That she could not be your Healer in this."

Hermione watched Snape's jaw work as he ground his teeth. He wasn't projecting his thoughts, but she knew he was thinking that Dumbledore was twisting his words. Probably not twisting them too badly, but turning what he'd said so that it caught a different light.

"Headmaster—" Snape began, but Dumbledore held up a hand.

"I won't hear any more of it, is the point I'm making, Severus. She is right for this."

_Because you made me right for it_, she thought, and was glad she'd intensified her shields already. Neither of the men in her flat noticed that she was having an internal meltdown.

\\\

Hermione had begun to look forward to her random encounters with Snape. When he wasn't pretending she didn't exist, he was easy to talk to. It was a wonderful novelty to only need to explain points A and B for him to zip along to point Z by himself; it made conversations that much faster.

They'd spent four hours in the Grimmauld Place library following the last meeting shoving books at each other and not-quite-arguing about the effects of altitude on potion-making. She'd had arithmantic theory on her side, he'd had real-life experience. They'd both been familiar enough with the Black family library to know where the books to back up their positions were, and they'd gone after them, literally throwing them in each other's faces on a few occasions.

The argument had only ended when they'd realized that they were agreeing with each other. Neither of them were arguing the point that they'd begun with, and it had really become a question of semantics. They'd looked around the library, at the mess—bits of parchment covered in arithmancy equations, layers of discarded references, and a clever little paper representation of Earth's topography and the layers of its atmosphere—and sheepishly set things to rights.

It was wonderful to have somebody to talk to about that sort of thing. (Or somebody to shout at about it, as it were.) Stimulating intellectual conversation. She'd missed it. She'd been so immersed in academia—first in France, then in Salem, then in Alexandria—that she hadn't realized what she'd had until she'd had a chance to miss it. It had taken her discussion of Potions theory to remind her.

_You're still wrong about the Ruiz Theorem_, she thought at him when their eyes met briefly, not sure if he heard her or not. He didn't respond. Didn't even raise an eyebrow at her. Of course, he was paying attention to the meeting like she was supposed to be.

They were by the fire again, standing on either side of the mantle. They were the outsiders of the Order, him the untrustworthy Slytherin spy, her still more-or-less unknown. Nobody had gone to school with her, nobody worked with her. A few of them had had the benefit of her expertise as a Healer, but that only seemed to mean that they weren't hostile towards her like they were to him. Her appearing so friendly with him didn't win her any points, but she'd take his conversation over theirs any day.

Moody was grouching on about the guard rotation at the Department of Mysteries, and Snape caught her eye.

_Am not._

She bit down on her lip hard to keep from laughing aloud.

* * *

Severus woke with her hand on his head. It was overwhelmingly comforting, and he suspected she had no idea.

His parents hadn't been the touching sort. (Excepting the occasional beating from his father.) He'd received perfunctory hugs now and again, nothing more. And Horace Slughorn had been his Head of House, prone to hearty thumps on the shoulder blades but only for his favorites, and Severus had never been a favorite. Pomona Sprout patted his hand occasionally, starting when he was eleven and she'd seen that he needed comforting and continuing through his teaching days. Minerva squeezed his shoulder once in awhile. Poppy could be counted on for the occasional biceps squeeze or a pat to his knee when she'd finished an examination. He'd been overwhelmed by enthusiastic hugs when Draco was a toddler, but those had fallen by the wayside well before the boy had started at Hogwarts.

And then came Hermione Granger, the elder.

He'd seen her with her friends as a student. She hugged and was hugged, and she was known to sling her arms around her two best friends as they walked to or from Hogsmeade. Despite that, she didn't seem prone to casual touches outside that inner circle. She didn't wander around with her arm slung around Ginny Weasley's waist, or arm-in-arm with Luna Lovegood, her only two female friends to his knowledge.

But now he seemed to have fallen into the same category as Weasley and Potter. She'd knocked her elbow against his the other day, and he'd begun to notice how often she touched him when she didn't have to. A hand somewhere along his arm when she passed him. Her knee bumping his. The way she always checked her Healing work with her fingertips when she'd finished, a gentle touch to sensitive new skin.

And this was the third time he'd come out of a spell-induced sleep with her hand in his hair. Her fingertips stroked, feather-light, against his scalp, her hand warm against his skull. She brushed her hand along his head, then drew her fingers gently through his hair, then brought her hand back up to begin again.

It was a comfortable, soothing thing. Nothing could go wrong in life when he had a woman's hand on his head. As he drifted off into a natural, restful sleep, he wondered if her other hand was holding a book.

\\\

Two days later, the same fingers that had been in his hair so recently brushed his hand when Hermione Granger, the younger, turned in her day's potion. Her hand shot back like she'd been burned, and she hurried off before the Greasy Git could castigate her for touching him.

He frowned, focusing on the collection of vials in front of him to hide his introspection. He knew things about that particular student a teacher shouldn't know. Hell, he knew things about her that _she _didn't know yet.

He knew that she missed her parents, but she missed her Head of House more; he'd found partially-written letters to all three of them. He knew that, on a relaxed night (such as when he'd been forced to sit still at her kitchen table for hours with a tube sticking out of his knee so excess fluid brought on by a curse could be drained), she would pour herself a glass of sweet dessert wine and nurse it for hours while she cooked and ate dinner. He knew that if her work didn't exhaust her well enough to have her asleep before midnight she'd down Ogden's until her mind went numb, and follow it the next morning with his own modified Sober-Up recipe that addressed potential liver problems as well as hangovers. He also knew that she was keeping secrets from Dumbledore, though he hadn't quite worked out what they were just yet.

It was such an odd dynamic. He was never sure how to act around her, what to say. Or at least that was the way of it when he wasn't bleeding—the clear action there was to present the bleeding portion of himself and hold still while she fixed it. And once they started talking, continuing to do so wasn't difficult. It was too easy to forget that Hermione Granger, the elder, was also Hermione Granger, the younger. It was too easy to forget that Hemione Granger, the younger, wasn't Hermione Granger, the elder.

_Damn you, Dumbledore. As if my life wasn't complex enough without needing to keep Granger straight in my head._

The younger repulsed him. She vibrated with youthful energy, the verve of the naïve. She bounced around the school, confidently going about her duties as a Prefect, badgering her friends into studying, and moping about that stupid boy when she thought nobody was looking. The elder fascinated him, and that was why he always saw her when the younger thought nobody was looking. He was looking.

* * *

Hermione had entirely forgotten about the meeting she'd arranged in the Hog's Head on the first Hogsmeade weekend of the school year. She remembered the D.A. just fine, but it had been years since she'd thought about it.

She pointed her wand at her face in the bathroom at the Three Broomsticks, working out a quick disguise. Longer nose, plumper lips, a touch too much makeup around her eyes. She added tall heels to her boots. Her robes would do the rest; she'd always worn Muggle clothes to Hogsmeade as a student.

All she had wanted to do was order the second half of the potions ingredients for the Order—they carefully split their ingredient buying between two or more apothecaries—and pick up a bit of lunch. She'd almost walked into Blaise Zabini's back when she entered the pub for lunch, though. She'd darted off to the bathroom before he or the Slytherins with him could recognize her.

She'd given up on lunch at the Three Broomsticks and was debating between the Leaky Cauldron and takeout (though the Leaky Cauldron was winning for the sheer fact that she wouldn't have to change her clothes) when she noted that the place had filled up with students and not a few staff chaperones. It was a dreary day and she didn't blame them escaping it for a butterbeer in the least.

Snape was standing by the table of Slytherins, shoulders relaxed. The students themselves were all looking at him a bit too eagerly, hanging on his words like all good arse-kissers. Hermione smirked and conjured herself a scarf to tie around her neck, brushing Snape's mind with her own in greeting without thinking and immediately berating herself. He jerked in surprise—or at least it was a jerk for him; it was really hardly more than a twitch. She'd spent enough time with him to notice it, though.

She headed for the door. The idiot behind the counter at the apothecary would have her order packaged by now, and she'd leave the little town.

"Sorry," she said when he fell into step with her a shopfront down from the Three Broomsticks. "It's habit. I didn't mean to startle you."

"I know," he said, surprisingly amiably. He took her hand and linked it through his arm so that they were walking together down the street. "You look ridiculous, by the way."

"I panicked," she said. She'd gone overboard, she knew. "Better to look ridiculous than to be recognized, though. I forgot it was a Hogsmeade weekend."

"Oh, _that_ would be lovely," he said dryly. She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "To be able to forget when a _weekend_ will be dominated by students running amok."

She chuckled, and they continued to walk in silence. They drew a few looks from passersby, but she couldn't decide if it was because the irascible Professor Snape was walking down the street with somebody or not.

"And where is your young counterpart this afternoon?" he asked after awhile. He'd been looking up and down the street, eyes seeking and finding the students of Hogwarts as they went about their mischief in town.

"Ah," she said, her lingering smirk turning into a proper smile. "My younger self is off at the Hog's Head inciting rebellion."

"Good, good," he said, nodding stoicly. She squeezed his arm, continuing to smile.

It was very easy to walk down the street on his arm. His legs were much longer than hers, but he could be a gentleman when it pleased him and he'd shortened his stride for her. He didn't seem to mind her grip on his arm, either, which was lucky because she'd made her heels too high.

"You're not really at the Hog's Head, are you?" he asked as they left the apothecary. The idiot behind the counter had been much quicker about his work with Snape standing in the shop.

"I'm afraid I am."

"Aberforth doesn't even serve butterbeer."

"I think the headmaster suggested he order some for this particular weekend," Hermione said, speaking from long-held suspicion. "We made plans to meet, and none of us were nearly as good at keeping secrets as we thought we were."

"Of course you weren't. They aren't." He cracked half a smile, putting her arm through his again as they began to walk. "It is remarkably difficult to talk about you, you know. The verbs."

"That's halfway by design, I'm sure," she replied. "It's all secrets, after all."

"How old are you?" he asked, then looked a touch sheepish, like he hadn't planned on actually asking her. She smiled at him, but stopped when she remembered they were walking down a public street.

"I was almost eighteen when he sent me back the first time, considering the Time Turner I used in my third year," she began, and he interrupted her by stopping and glaring down at her.

"Are you telling me that you added _two years_ on—"

"It was just over a year. I'm a September birthday," she replied smoothly, using her grip on his arm to get them moving again. "And then I added just over five years getting all the training Dumbledore wanted me to have. Then around four years avoiding everything. All the counting done, my 'birthday' falls in early June now, and I'm twenty-seven after the last one."

He walked a few paces in perfect silence. She wasn't even sure he was breathing. He had her hand clenched into the crook of his elbow, and his face was so blank that she knew he was Occluding.

_Why should my age make him lock down on Occlumency?_

He came back to himself a moment later, making small talk and angling for the inside scoop on the mischief her younger self was getting into. Then he wished her a good day and headed for the Hog's Head to make a note of the students in attendance.

_"__Mercurial" doesn't even begin to cover that man's mood swings_, she thought, then Disapparated to the Leaky Cauldron for her lunch.

\\\

Snape's odd behavior was forgotten in the next week. Dumbledore spent most of his time glaring at her and prodding at her Occlumency shields, then apologizing about it. He was overwhelmingly curious about the near future, with Harry's '"ittle Defense group" and with Dolores Umbridge. He knew better to ask, and he'd forbidden her from saying anything anyway, but he still wanted to know.

She enjoyed the headmaster's predicament, even when it resulted in her bloody nose when he was a little too curious. She was still mad at him about Spain, so she took particular pleasure in sitting there and smiling while he wondered what she knew.

"Headmaster—" Snape had said when he came upon them in the library, Hermione's nose bleeding and Dumbledore glaring at her. The headmaster merely held up a hand to stop him talking, then rubbed his forehead and left the room. "Granger?"

"He wants to know what's going to happen," she said, wiping away the blood with the offered handkerchief. "But he's also ordered me not to tell him. He's a bit frustrated."

Snape sighed and sat down across from her, accepting the handkerchief back after she cleaned it with a spell.

"What _is _going to happen?"

"I'm not going to tell you, either," she told him, shuffling her notes. She'd been working the arithmancy again, checking and double-checking the runes she'd chosen for her equations. Dumbledore had been asking her a lot of questions about her equations at the meetings lately, drawing an annoying amount of attention to her and forcing her to be more careful with her papers. Some of the information she passed on had more to do with her experience of the future than her probability factoring; she needed the parchments to back up what she told the Order.

"Why not?"

"Paradoxes, mostly. Also the headmaster would hex me seven ways from Saturday. And you'll find out soon enough, anyway."

She was mostly hung up on how to warn them about Arthur Weasley's approaching attack. And Minerva's. And Sirius Black. She couldn't change any of it. Mr. Weasley would be attacked, Minerva would be in St. Mungo's for weeks, and Sirius Black would die. But, with Mr. Weasley, should she tell them? _Had _she told them ahead of time? If she had, she'd have to do it again. If she hadn't, she could ruin everything.

The what-ifs made her head hurt.

"Tell me something innocuous, then. Who wins the Cup this summer?"

"I really have no idea," she told him, raising her eyebrows and packing up her things. They had a meeting to get to down in the kitchen. She stopped to smile at him, though. "It's funny, actually. I've lived that summer half a dozen times and I never once thought of Quidditch."

He scowled at her, muttering about hobbies as they made their way out of the library and down the stairs to the kitchen.

"Samantha, my dear," Dumbledore said with false warmth when they entered. Most of the others were already present—Moody was at the Ministry taking his turn outside the Department of Mysteries, Lupin was in a pub somewhere sweet-talking werewolves, and the Weasleys were running late—gathered in their usual places around the table. "Have a seat. I'd like you to share your latest equations."

So she took a seat at the table. Snape continued past and stood by the fireplace, and she desperately wished she could join him in the warm shadows. Instead, she spread her arithmancy on the table and began explaining the trends emerging from the numbers and runes. Most of the eyes glazed over immediately, and the rest narrowed shrewdly. If they knew anything about arithmancy, they knew that she'd been given dangerous amounts of information in order to put the equations together. She ignored the looks and flicked her wand at the parchment, calling up the colorful matrix that represented the equations, explaining what it meant for those who didn't have the math.


	7. Chapter Six

Sometimes, he thought they might be friends. He didn't have friends, so he didn't really know.

Well. He _used _to have friends. Lily had been his friend when he was a boy, and Lucius had been his friend in school. And Narcissa, the youngest of the Black sisters, to a point. (It was good policy, back then, to avoid the Black sisters—Andromeda, the eldest, clashed with her sisters and her parents constantly, and Bellatrix had always been crazy. Narcissa had been not-awful to him, though. By his standards, in school, that was practically dating.) Regulus Black had been a few years younger and almost a friend, too.

Hermione Granger, though. Now that was an odd thought.

He'd asked her her age because he was a curious idiot, and, like most his questions, she'd answered simply and honestly and without getting offended when she had every right to do just that. And she was old enough that, if she'd lived her life like a normal person, she would have been at Hogwarts with him as a student.

Even with having to see her throughout the week as a student, a frizzy-headed thing carrying too many books around, that put her squarely in the fair game category. If he'd known her in school, he would have asked her out, blood status be damned. He hadn't adopted that particular prejudice (and then only to blend in) until a year or so after he'd left Hogwarts.

She was like Lily only better. She was alive, for one. And she had shadows in her, like he did. Lily had had shadows, too, but she'd denied them. Vehemently. Hermione accepted them. She didn't cherish them, she didn't proudly pull them out and show them off (her reaction to Moody's taunting was an example there), but she didn't hide them.

It was this train of thought that led him to her doorstep one blustery morning. He didn't have to be back at the school until late Sunday (an appointment with Blaise Zabini, probably to discuss supplementary Charms instruction over the Christmas hols). He'd made the decision to try to be her friend. If she'd let him. If he could get around his own ineptitude and proclivity for putting people off.

_Gods, this was a stupid idea._

"Snape, hello! Why did you knock?"

"It seemed rude to let myself in when I'm… not injured."

"Oh. Well. I did give you a key, you know. You're welcome any time."

He blinked and followed her into the kitchen. He was welcome any time? That didn't happen. He had a standing invitation at Malfoy Manor, but that was more of a mutual alliance than a welcoming friendship.

"I was just writing you a letter, actually," she said, then folded the parchment up before he could see.

They'd been exchanging letters fairly regularly, all things considered. Once a week, maybe twice if there was a particularly atrocious article in the _Prophet_ or something worth talking about in one of the trade journals they both followed. Last month, she'd sent him an excellent notated copy of _Transfiguration Today_ that he'd very carefully hidden from Minerva when she came for tea. (Most of the marginal comments had not been the least bit polite.)

They sat in the living room, settling into comfortable chairs, and she put out tea on the coffee table. He might've been the one to show up, but she didn't even ask him why he was there. They just sat, trading opinions on the articles they read and then switching magazines so that they could argue about whose observations were right. They were halfway through a potential improvement for Wolfbane (him writing out possibilities and books to consult, her creating a new arithmantic algorithm specifically for the experiment) when a half-serious argument about who got the last slice of pizza brought them up short. It was nearing midnight.

* * *

When Snape, _Severus_—Sev?—left, it had been nearly twenty-four hours. A full day's worth of impromptu visit. Hermione hadn't felt a moment of it pass. In fact, if it hadn't been for the owl from Minerva asking where the hell he'd got to, they might not have pulled their heads out of the conversation at all.

It was so easy to talk to him, which was odd: He was snippy and tended to back up arguments with insults when he began to realize she was winning.

And his accent, ingrained after so many years of practice in the Slytherin common room as a boy and perpetuated by habit, slipped back to its Manchester roots when he was impassioned and away from Hogwarts. (Or in pain, she'd noticed in the past few months, though she'd tried not to think about that overmuch.)

And he'd told her a sweet story about having less than a handful of friends as a child, and how his best friend (who had died long, long ago) had called him Sev. And the insinuation had been that she could call him Sev, if she wanted to.

He could cook, too. He'd made them a wonderful sort of burrito thing, spicier and more flavorful than it had any right to be, for lunch.

And he looked quite dashing with a five o'clock shadow, which had begun to come in sometime around midnight.

She'd wanted to strangle him through half the day. He was infuriating. He played devil's advocate just to get a rise out of her, taking the most ludicrous stance on a topic and belaboring each sodding point until he just couldn't take it anymore and cracked up at her expense (or, very rarely, she sussed out what he was up to and smacked him with a book).

Yet even when she had had to physically sit on her hands to keep from grabbing him around the shoulders and shaking him, she'd enjoyed every minute of it.

\\\

By December, she was a fixture at the table during Order meetings. She still felt awkward, and she could tell that the others would prefer she stood at the far end of the room, but Dumbledore had made it all very clear to them. He asked her questions, involved her in discussion. Moody liked her even less than he had previously, assuming she worked from the sidelines, doing arithmancy and occasionally helping as a Healer.

Hermione sighed. There was another meeting in an hour and she doubted the headmaster would be in attendance, which meant the hostility pointed in her direction would be more overt than usual.

She locked up her flat, set the wards to alert her if anybody showed up while she was away, and Apparated to the front step of Grimmauld Place. Sirius Black let her in with a gruff nod, which she returned. She wasn't quite able to meet his eyes—she knew how he died, after all. And she didn't plan to do anything to prevent his death.

The kitchen was empty when she arrived, and she started making tea. Sirius had gone up the stairs into the house after letting her in, but she definitely didn't mind.

She set the tea out and sat in what had become her usual chair. It was at the far end of the table, still close to the fireplace. From the right angle (or the wrong angle, really), she was mostly obscured by the light, reduced to a silhouette. She did all she could to obscure herself. Dumbledore refered to her as Samantha Barnes and she'd asked everybody to call her Sam. Severus was the only one who had recognized her. Nobody was looking for Hermione Granger in the meetings, and Dumbledore had set them all up to see somebody else; Severus was just a special case. That didn't mean she shouldn't be careful, though.

Hermione had dressed in her not-quite-a-disguise. The braids and beads in her hair. Dark jeans tucked into her dragonhide boots. White button-up under a gray vest. She liked the vest because it had hidden pockets, good for all the little things that would've gone in a purse. She'd acquired robes, which was odd sometimes when she got to thinking about it. She wore them as a part of her everyday clothes, not even the way she had at school where they'd felt like a long coat she never took off.

She wasn't as singular in her robes as Severus, but she had favorites. Today she'd worn her favorite because she had to go sit in a meeting with Sirius Black and not tell him she was sorry for how he had died—how he would die.

The robe was charcoal gray, a simple cut, showing her silhouette without clinging. There was a bit of a collar, a very slight squaring of the shoulders at the top of the sleeves. The sleeves draped away from the elbow. There were nine silver clasps down the front, the first one at her collarbones and the last one just below her pelvis, giving her feet and legs room to move even though the robe continued down to mid-calf. There were large, Celtic-looking designs to break up the expanse of dark fabric, swirling over the hem at each wrist, decorating the collar, and on either side of the gap at the bottom of the robe after the clasps ended.

Not nearly as dramatic as the black expanses of Severus's teaching robes, nor could it touch anything Dumbledore wore, but it suited her. There were secret pockets in the sleeves of the robe, too.

Tired of herself for sitting there thinking about her clothes, Hermione poured herself another cup of tea and scowled at it for awhile.

Slowly, the Order arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were first, Mrs. Weasly immediately beginning to make dinner. Mr. Weasley chatted to her politely about the morning's _Prophet_.

Sirius joined them in the kitchen shortly after Lupin arrived. Tonks, who liked Hermione fine but didn't seem to care for Sam Barnes much, sat between Lupin and Mr. Weasley. Moody sat across from Tonks. Kingsley sat next to Moody, but made polite conversation with Hermione (which was nice of him). Dedalus Diggle sat across from Hermione, putting his copy of the Quibbler up between them so that all she could see was the top half of his top hat.

The rest filed in and it was much the same. She didn't work with any of them. They knew that Dumbledore trusted her, but that was all they really knew about her. She'd even played mediwitch to a few of them, but it didn't earn her anything but politeness.

Hermione was just beginning to get annoyed with them all when Severus entered. The room didn't go quiet, but the part closest to him did. He entered with Minerva, nodding politely to something she'd said. Minerva was greeted cheerfully and took her place at the other end of the table from Hermione, near where Dumbledore normally sat. The pocket of silence followed Severus down the length of the table; nobody greeted him, at least not aloud. Hermione sent her usual friendly brush of mind against his Occlumency shield, and was surprised but pleased when he reciprocated the gesture.

The meeting when downhill from there.

It was remarkable how uncomfortable the kitchen could be. She spent hours at Grimmauld Place, usually solitary hours. She would brew in the cellar, then adjourn to the kitchen for some tea and brandy while the potion simmered or set or rested; whatever it needed to do. Those were comfortable hours. The kitchen was large, dominated by the long table. There were pots and pans everywhere, bread left out under dish towels. It was homey. She remembered Christmas of fifth year at Grimmauld Place, sitting in the kitchen on Christmas morning, happily chatting with everybody and thanking them for the presents. None of that welcoming ambiance was present during the meeting.

First, they'd discussed the latest mysterious death, her most recent name on a slip of paper from Dumbledore. It had been a wizard who worked in the Records Office.

"He was Marked Tuesday last," Severus confirmed. He stood behind her chair, surprisingly. She wondered when he'd left his place against the mantle.

"I suppose you were present for that soiree to follow?" Moody asked nastily.

"Naturally," Snape replied almost blandly.

Sirius said something scathing, and Hermione could feel Severus's responding sneer. Minerva moved the meeting along before anybody drew their wand.

"Rumor at the Ministry is that Dumbledore has been having these people killed," Kingsley said. They'd been away for the topic long enough that Hermione had hoped it wouldn't come up, but the staid tone of the Auror's voice caught everybody's ear. She knew Severus had a hand on the back of her chair from the way the wood moved as his fingers tightened on it, and she loved him for it.

"_Has _he been having them killed?" Mr. Weasley asked, looking up and down the table. His eyes lingered on Severus, or maybe on her, for a breath longer than on anybody else.

"Would you want to know if he had been?" Hermione asked, staring down the table at nobody in particular.

"What do you mean? Of course we would," Tonks said indignantly. They were all looking at their neighbors now, knowing that if somebody in the Order had been playing assassin, it would be one of them in the room. They were the core, the ones with the best positions to influence and recruit.

"This is a war, girly," Moody said, both his eyes fixed on her. She didn't like it. "Not knowing about something doesn't make it not happen."

"So you'd want to know that one of the people in this room, a friend maybe, goes out to do murder under cover of dark?" She wondered if they'd hear the self-recrimination, or if it would just be Severus noticing. He always noticed. (He never brought it up, of course; she could just tell from the way he looked at her when he thought she wouldn't notice.)

"I'd like to shake their hand," Moody said, so lightly, so off-the-cuff, that she thought she might be sick. He noticed and glowered at her. "Grow up, Barnes. This isn't a time for _innocence_. Dumbledore might have you tucked away brewing potions—" And there he paused to give Severus a dirty look, implying, of course, a dereliction of duty since he wasn't the one brewing the majority of the potions anymore. "—but I'm sure you've noticed how many of us come back bleeding.

"We might be the Light facing off against Dark wizards—" Another glare for Severus. "—but it's never that simple. The world is made of gray areas. I don't give a shit for your morality, or whatever it is. Some people in this room—" Surely not her. "—have seen the reality of this fight. Even the Light has to cast shadows."

"How very poetic," Severus said scathingly. Moody's focus shifted up from Hermione to Severus, and the familiar argument played out. Moody didn't like Severus, never had. He could only see the young Death Eater. He was almost as bad as Sirius when it came to pointless taunts and old grudges, though he restrained himself from hexing better than Sirius ever did.

Hermione found herself profoundly thankful. Without a doubt, Severus had distracted the old Auror on purpose. She'd been about to snap at Moody, and that wouldn't have won her any favor with the others.

"You know," Severus said, taunting Moody now, "the Death Eaters have taken to calling—whoever it is—Dumbledore's dragon. Fitting, don't you think? All that fire."

His mind brushed hers. She almost jumped at the contact, the relief of it. She felt like she was a guitar string and somebody was turning the tuning pin, winding her tighter and tighter, too tight; she felt like she was going to snap, and then his mind turned the pin the other way.

"Yes," Moody snarled back at Snape. "I like that. A flaming dragon descending on all those bearing the Dark Mark, charring them off the—"

"Enough," Minerva said from the other end of the table, looking pale. Hermione wondered if it was because she, strangely enough, seemed to like Severus, or if it was because Moody had sat forward in his chair enough that he was a breath away from surging to his feet. "We have other things to talk about tonight."

Hermione held onto her contact with Severus. They were just brushing minds, like fingers touching under a table. No communication, just contact. Support.

That night, back at her flat, she didn't dwell so much on the conversation from the meeting, but on that support, the relief in the looming presence behind her chair. She nursed a glass of red wine, settling into her favorite reading chair sans-book for a good think.


	8. Chapter Seven

The next time he saw her was at Grimmauld Place again. There was no meeting. It was a weekend, and he had provided a flimsy excuse to get out of the castle. He'd had half a mind to go to his own home and enjoy his books, but Dumbledore had taken Black off somewhere, so he'd opted for headquarters.

The hippogriff was upstairs doing whatever it did during the day; otherwise the house was empty until she arrived. He hadn't been expecting her, and she clearly hadn't been expecting him. He entered the kitchen from the cellar lab just as she entered through the main door.

She was covered in blood, a good bit of it seeming to be her own. There was a deep slice along her cheek, starting at her left temple and carving down the side of her face to the turn of her jaw.

She wore Muggle blue jeans, torn and bloodied, and a black t-shirt. The shirt was tucked in, probably to give her better access to the pouches on her belt. He recognized the garroting wire in one pouch. She had strips of leather wrapped around her hands, some sort of protection for fighting with fists.

She smelled of charred flesh and burning wood. He could feel the cold flowing off her in waves; she was Occluding intensely. Too intensely, actually. If she kept it up, she could damage herself.

"Let it drop," he said, freezing in place when she spun to face him, wand in her right hand and her knife in her left.

"The hell are you doing here?" she asked through clenched teeth, returning her weapons to their places.

"Keeping away from Dolores Umbridge," he said honestly. "Brewing."

She almost smiled, but moving her face seemed to remind her of the wound. It began oozing fresh blood, and she turned away from him, pulling a flat wallet-looking bit of leather out of her back pocket and waving her hand over it to restore it to its usual shape, a brown leather satchel on a long strap.

She pulled a black, boxy kit out of the satchel, opening it and pulling out the hinged drawers inside. He had a kit very much like it. She conjured herself a mirror and proceeded to ignore him, clearing the blood off her face and then stitching herself up with thread from a jar in her kit. It was coiled in a solution of some sort; he wasn't familiar with it.

"Why not use a charm?" he asked after watching her. She'd finished half the slice.

"Because," she said when she next paused to wipe away the blood, "if I do it this way there won't be a scar, and if there isn't a scar I don't have to answer questions."

He nodded. The potion in his hands belonged in the pantry with the other stock of healing things for the Order, so he stepped away to put it there. He'd almost forgotten the chill of her Occlumency until he stepped out of the sphere of it.

It made his stomach twist. He'd seen Hermione Granger, the younger, on Friday in Potions class. She'd been a little swot, coaching Longbottom along with his assignment. It had saved him the mess of a melted cauldron, yes, but it was still insufferable. Thinking of that girl when watching this older version of her unflinchingly sew up her own face…

"What happened tonight?"

"You don't have to be the one to hear it," she replied, tying off the last stitch and putting the thread away. She pulled out a jar of white ointment with a lid that matched the one on the thread, and scooped some on two fingers. It smoked when she applied it to her stitches, but when the smoke cleared there was only a fading red line to show for her injury. After a few long seconds, it was gone entirely.

"But you need to say it."

She glared at him, beginning to unload the rest of her things. She undid the clasps on her wand sheath and removed the knife and wand from it, putting the wand on the table in easy reach and dropping the knife into the sink. This time, she didn't need to clean the wire, it seemed.

"He sent me for Aurelius Block," she said, toneless. She didn't look at him, focusing instead on cleaning the knife in the sink. "The one whose name you delivered. Do you know why you were given that name?"

She turned to look at him. She had blood splattered on her face, the other side from where she'd been injured. Somebody else's blood. It was in her hair, too.

"He'd displeased the Dark Lord, and _he _thought it would be amusing to have Dumbledore do his dirty work."

"Me, you mean," she said bitterly, turning away. "Dumbledore's dragon."

Severus frowned. There had been a fight about it at the last Order meeting. Moody had really noticed Granger for the first time despite the fact that she'd been at meetings all summer, usually tucked in the shadow by the fireplace like him. He'd practically attacked her for her innocence, her unblooded-ness, or at least the appearance of that. She did look very young and innocent when she wasn't covered in blood; she was a small woman with a pretty face and a delicate look to her. Moody had yelled at her about the gray areas of war, how the Light sometimes had to cast shadows. Severus had stepped in, then, recalling the lot of them to Moody's constant distrust of him, the resident shadow, turning the argument away from her and into the familiar, if hostile, territory that always came up when he and the old Auror were in the same room and allowed to talk for any length of time.

"Aurelius Block was in love. Voldemort wanted him killed because he hadn't been asked about the match. The woman was a half-blood raised by her Muggle father," she said. Her voice wavered. He could feel her Occlumency shields beginning to crack. Flashes of her experience leapt out of her mind at him. The Block house. Aurelius standing to defend his life, telling her why he was being killed, telling her his wife was pregnant, asking her for mercy. After she'd disarmed him, he'd tried to run. She'd leapt after him, the scuffle that ensued ended when she'd thrown him bodily to the floor and driven her knife under his rib and through his kidney. He'd dropped like a stone. Then she'd burned the place. "The wife will be there now. Probably looking through the ash for mementos, for his body. She won't find anything."

_I obliterate them_, he remembered her saying the last time they'd spoken of it. She picked up his memory, and nodded.

"Can I ask you an odd question?"

She laughed bitterly, and continued cleaning her things. She nodded.

"Why do you use the knife? The wire?"

"Because it hurts less than using my hands."

He looked at her for a moment, remembering her with the slice down her face. That undoubtedly hurt more than getting punched.

"That's not what I mean."

"I know." She'd finished the knife now and had moved onto the sheath, cleaning the blood out of it with spells, but stopped to look at him. Her full attention was… intense. "I don't do it because I think it will save my soul, if that's what you're wondering."

"No," he said thoughtfully, "I—"

She held up a hand to stop him talking. "Causing death—no matter if you want to call it murder or an accident or mercy or an assassination—_hurts_ the one who does it. Everybody I killed in the Fights, everybody Dumbledore tells me to kill now, I feel it. Even if I know they deserve it.

"I actually read quite a bit about it in Alexandria." She chuckled mirthlessly. "If I were to use magic to kill—not the Killing Curse, but Fiendfyre, or even just using _Petrificus Totalus _and then shoving them into a lake—it would be the same as using the knives. They'd be dead, and I would be shattered because I caused it. I might feel vindicated. I might even feel that justice was served. But there's still remorse, that little voice at the back of my mind telling me that there should be a different way.

"But that's all there is. With that kind of death, it's just death.

"If I were to use the Killing Curse, their death would magically rip at my soul. That's how Horcruxes are created. If the intent is there, the magical rending can be used to separate that shattered soul." Severus shuddered and she nodded. He didn't like the pity he saw in her eyes; it made her look even older. Tired.

"But you asked why I choose my knife and wire," she continued. "I could certainly use Fiendfyre; I'm very good at that. I could track them down and watch them burn before I cover my tracks with the rest of it. But, truthfully, I use the knife because—" She sighed and looked away, fidgeting with the leather of the sheath. "—I want to give them the chance to hurt me. To fight back. Maybe to kill me instead.

"I use the wire because I sneak up on them. I take my time. I poke a hole in their wards and wait in their houses. Then I attack them. I don't feel like quite so much a villain if I come at them with a knife when they have a wand."

He stood and walked over to her. She wasn't looking at him. Her hands hand gone still on the holster. The room was even colder from her Occlumency than it had been. He shivered, raising his hand to trail a fingertip down the line of the slice she'd stitched up. There was no trace of the injury except for the smears of blood.

"You aren't a villain," he said. She glanced up at him, eyes sparking with dry humor.

"Said the pot to the kettle."

He removed his hand from her face, trying very hard to ignore the way his fingertips tingled. _Student_, he reminded himself. _She's your student. Even if she's barely seven years younger than you now, she's still your student._

"You need to drop your shields," he told her after a long moment. He stayed close, leaning his hips back against the counter by the sink.

She didn't say anything, just going back to her things. She took out a vial from her kit and began oiling the leather of the sheath, then the leather wraps she'd had on her hands. He watched her work, oddly soothed by the practiced movement of her hands. They were small hands, dainty, delicate, pretty. There was blood drying in her cuticles.

"It would work, you know," he said at long last, aiming to distract her, to talk about something else. He hadn't been able to think of anything nice to talk about, though. Something banal but distracting. She needed to stop Occluding. If she was anything like him, she'd need to scream.

"What would?"

"Your plan to kill me."

Her hands stopped, and after a moment she looked up at him. Her mind brushed against his, a question without words. He'd shocked her.

"Even knowing that that's how you'd do it, I'd still react the same," he said honestly. He'd thought about it after the conversation. Dumbledore had been making a point, and as far as the headmaster concerned it went no farther, but it had made him reevaluate.

"I know," she said, turning back to her work. Then she glanced at him, meeting his eyes, and in his mind he heard, _And I believe you know that I would kill you before you could get the antidote into me_.

He nodded.

When her tools were clean and stowed in her satchel again, she began to clean herself. She washed the blood away from hands and face, and used a charm to take it out of her hair. The charm made her hair frizz up comically, poufing out of the bun she'd had it in. She seemed annoyed, running wet hands though it and retying the bun, ignoring the curls that immediately popped out of the restraint and framed her face. It would have been pretty if she didn't look so haunted and haggard.

He didn't want to examine that. This was an awful dynamic. He saw her all the time at Hogwarts now; she stood out from the crowd like a beacon. She was young and intense, studying for her O.W.L.s like a maniac, always in step with Potter and Weasley. Then he'd see her here or at her flat in Edinburgh, and she was still intense but it was a different thing. And he kept catching himself thinking that she was beautiful. Or watching the way the curls framed her face.

He'd brushed her mind in Potions accidentally earlier in the week. She'd stood up straight, shocked, looking around. She hadn't known what it was. He'd had to turn around, and shuffle his papers needlessly to keep from looking at her, from watching her. He'd had a glimpse of a library within her mind, meticulous organization of facts and experiences. She'd been totally unguarded, completely unlike this woman who had so many mental shields between her mind and the world that she was likely to pass out soon.

Deliberately, gently, he brushed her mind with his. She was beginning to loosen her hold on her shields. She could feel him touching. She gave him a pained smile, knew he was trying to help. He wanted to give her a hug, but that was preposterous.

She turned away, setting her satchel on the table and then beginning to make tea. He pulled out the brandy, putting it next to her satchel and sitting down, making it clear he wasn't going anywhere.

They sat in silence working their way through the pot of tea with liberal doses of the brandy. He didn't particularly like the combined taste of it and he suspected she didn't either, but that didn't stop them in the least.

"If you wanted to kill me, all you'd need to do is poison the brandy," she said after a long time.

"I thought we already established what would happen if you were poisoned in my presence," he said, then cursed himself. That had been awfully close to flirtatious. Maudlin flirtation.

She was quiet again for a while. The cold had begun to dissipate, which made him want to raise his own Occlumency shields. They'd seen each other a handful of times in the last few months, and each time they had shared thoughts, their minds had brushed. It seemed that whenever they weren't paying attention, stray thoughts went to visit.

She finished her tea, and her control shattered. She released her Occlumency so quickly that he felt it hit him like a wave of ice against his consciousness. She started shaking; her whole body quaked as she sat there, clenched, looking down into her empty cup.

Severus was around the table in three strides, pulling the chair next to hers out sideways and sitting down with his knees pressed to her thigh. He grabbed her hands and held on, meeting her eyes. Their minds danced. There were no single thoughts, not that could be expressed in words. It was just emotion, sadness rising to meet sadness, loneliness, pain. They were both yearning for other things, for easier lives, and they both knew they'd never get them.

He didn't know how long they sat there. They were both breathing hard when they returned to the present moment, to their own minds. They were both crying, too.

_Some nights are harder than others_, he told her, meaning to say it out loud but forgetting to move his mouth. She smiled and nodded, breaking eye contact.

He released her hands and sat back. He had the overwhelming urge to kiss her, but he wasn't sure where it came from. The emotion of the moment? Just sitting next to a pretty girl? The fact that it was this particular pretty girl?

She didn't seem to be aware of his debate, which was nice. She surprised him by leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek, too… just a chaste peck, but it set his blood pumping double time.

He wondered, for a split second, if he should retaliate by kissing her properly. Instead, though, he poured them each a shot, and they clinked their teacups together before tossing them back.

\\\

Severus saw Hermione twice more in the next few weeks. The first time was at a meeting, surrounded by other people. She brushed against his mind in greeting, a warm, intimate sort of touch of welcome, like a good friend choosing to sit in the cramped seat next to him instead of in the more comfortable spot available across the room. It was familiar and… nice.

His almost decent mood was ruined when he saw Moody. The asshole was watching him intently, not quite glaring. A quick dip into his mind—for somebody as paranoid and generally well-prepared as the old Auror, he had no skill at Occlumency whatsoever, though there were signs that he'd tried to learn at one point or another—uncovered the reason, and it was infuriating. Dumbledore had told Moody to be in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place at a certain time on a certain day to see the "dragon," and he'd been invisible in the corner watching and listening while Severus talked to her, when her Occlumency had crashed down around them. Bastard.

_Moody was there_, he told Granger in her mind. It was decidedly odd to be able to communicate with only eye contact. He supposed they couldn't do it often or the others would think they were looking deeply into one another's eyes or some shit.

_I know_, she replied, the statement outlined with such a sense of annoyance that he almost smiled. _He cornered me the other day to talk about it._

He'd shuddered, and the meeting had ground slowly on. Luckily, Moody hadn't wanted to talk to _him _about it.

The second time had been when he'd stumbled into her flat at two in the morning, shuddering with the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse. He'd roused her from bed. That had been the time he'd seen her scars.

Severus was Summoned at least twice a week and was rarely punished these days, but when he was it was bad. That time it had been because he didn't know what Dumbledore had been doing at the Ministry a few days before. The Dark Lord had punished him himself, so it had been the Cruciatus.

His stomach heaved the moment he landed in the hall outside her flat. The Apparition point was the end of the hall, a pocket of space that she or Dumbledore had spelled to go unnoticed by Muggles. He didn't have anything left in his stomach to puke up, which was probably a good thing.

Sucking in air through his nose and trying to ignore the shaking that had begun in his fingertips, he let himself in. It had been dark. He'd expected her to be reading or about, but the flat had been dark and he'd known a moment of panic thinking he'd have to drag himself to Grimmauld Place and hope somebody noticed him.

But then she had come out of her bedroom, wearing Muggle pajama pants in a bluish plaid, and a white tank top. Her hair had been a mess of floaty curls, flatter on one side than the other. He'd caught himself thinking about how charming it was before his focus returned to the tremors in his knees.

Hermione had pushed him into the kitchen without a word, making him sit in a chair while she cast the usual diagnostic spells around him. The results hovered in the air where she'd put them, giving her feedback in the form of glowing bits of color. He'd never been able to make much sense of them, but he was usually the one they were being cast on anyway.

She looked him over critically, cancelled and recast one of the diagnostics, and the flicked her wand at a cupboard. Within seconds, the Summoned vials were in hand. The only things that helped with the tremors were the muscle relaxant she handed him and sleep, but he couldn't sleep yet. She set the Dreamless Sleep on the table in front of him, knowing better than to try to get him to take it.

She saw to his other minor ills while he waited for the muscle relaxant to take effect. There were scrapes on his knees and palms from falling over. He'd bitten his tongue while he was under the curse and it hurt quite a lot, actually.

He studied her while she worked. Even in bed, she'd had her wand sheath on her wrist. It was supple black leather; with her wand in her hand, he could see the handle of the small knife hidden in the sheath. She had a long, delicate gold chain around her neck with the pendant tucked into the tank top she slept in: The Time Turner, no doubt.

The clothes didn't really mean anything to him; he could see more of her scars, though. Her hands and forearms were positively riddled with them, almost as bad as his own. He had a lifetime's worth of little brewing mishaps, where he'd nicked his finger with a knife while preparing ingredients or a boiling potion had spat out a few droplets to burn him. She had a few that might be the same sort, but… There was her left hand, broken and sliced open after her two unsuccessful attempts to escape the Fights. There was a dark red scar, slightly puckered, that began under her right collarbone and dragged down below the neckline of her shirt.

There were other small things. A tiny white line of a scar on one side of her throat. He almost reached out to touch the silver-white swirl on her right elbow; he had two of his own like it. That was the result of the caster touching the tip of the wand to the skin while casting the Cruciatus for more than a few seconds. It intensified the pain and deadened the point of contact for days. The Dark Lord didn't tend to bother, as the Cruciatus without touching was painful enough. The scars were almost pretty, though; radiating from the point of touch in a curling starburst, turning the skin a pearly silver-white that shone a bit in direct light, but wasn't raised or otherwise different from the texture of the surrounding skin.

It really drove home that this was not the Hermione Granger he had scowled through a Potions class at just a few hours ago.

She turned away from him, and for an embarrassed moment he thought she'd caught him staring. But no, she was headed for the drinks cabinet.

There were more scars on her back, worse than the little things up and down her arms. Ridges of skin from badly healed wounds.

"Who whipped you?" The question escaped his lips before he could think of it. Luckily, she didn't take offense, as he would have. She was remarkably forthcoming about them, actually, considering her reaction to his questions about her hand.

"A book," she said dryly. She was having whiskey with water this time, and brought him a dram as well. He felt like he'd probably want a drink by the end of the night, so he took it with a nod of thanks. "At the library in Alexandria. We didn't realize it was cursed until I activated it."

"What happened?"

"I started screaming, mostly," she said. Her tone was still dry, but there was an edge behind it he didn't recognize. She was angry about being caught unaware by the spell? "It didn't damage my clothes or anything, so it took them awhile to figure out what was wrong."

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to imagine it.

"Forty lashes, and I think it would have been worse if they hadn't burned the book."

"And the Healers couldn't…?"

"The Healers did a damn fine job," she said, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "The damage was such that… well, there wasn't a lot of flesh left on my back, and they grew the skin first to prevent infection."

He Summoned the whiskey and refilled their glasses, giving her a double. It made her smirk.

"And how was your night?" she asked, pointedly changing the subject.

"Brilliant," he said, sarcasm dripping from each syllable. "He wanted to know why Dumbledore had been at the Ministry this week." He sipped his drink. "I didn't even know he'd been to the Ministry."

"Want me to tell you, or would that make it worse?"

He'd been surprised at the question. Nobody ever told him anything. In fact, what he knew about things usually really did come from spying on the Order (or at least eavesdropping) unless it was something said outright at a meeting. He just listened to the people around him, paid attention even if it looked like he was just glowering at the room from a corner.

So he shrugged and smirked at her, holding his drink with both hands so that she wouldn't be able to see his shaking so clearly.


	9. Chapter Eight

Hermione kept an upright piano on the shelf by the books in her sitting room. Most of the time, it was shrunk down to fit on the shelf and looked like any other trinket, but occasionally she would rearrange and resize the furniture, removing the sizing charm on the piano. It was a quiet evening on the warfront, and there was a thunderstorm raging outside, so she had opened up a Riesling and brought out the piano, thinking fondly of her mother.

It had been a childhood battle, her mother teaching her piano. They had structured lesson time every day after school, and she was _encouraged_ to practice on her own at least twice a week. There had been more than one instance of uncontrolled magic in her frustration, metronomes realigning their beat to her tempo, the clock on the wall setting itself so that it read the time for the end of the lesson.

She'd been quite good by the time she was eight, though. The lessons had slowed to three a week, and she hadn't resented them quite so much. After she'd started at Hogwarts, the lessons had stopped, but she'd still played when she felt like it.

The piano had been one of the first things she bought for herself when she moved into the flat in Edinburgh. Dumbledore provided the necessities—the bed and wardrobe, chairs for the sitting room, the large kitchen table—and she filled in the rest.

She knew most of the classic sonatas from memory, and more than a few "pop classics" of the Eighties. She played what she was in the mood for, and she was playing a chord-heavy fugue by one of the Bachs. She was trying to remember how it ended when she heard the key in the door.

Severus was grinning like a loon. That was the first clue. The second clue was when he crossed the room in a hurry and presented her with his wand, grip first.

"Severus?"

"Every month, I bring Gretchen Goyle an anti-depressant."

"That's nice of you."

He scowled at her. "She's less homicidal when she's happy-ish."

"Okay."

"The Dark Lord thought it would be funny if I were to be dosed with a month's worth of it."

"What?"

"The last time this happened, I was 22 and I charmed everything in Abraxus Malfoy's parlor to mother of pearl. They couldn't reverse it; they ended up selling most of it. Bastards made mint on my bloody spellwork."

"I see," she said, though she really didn't. She was, however, amused to note that he'd lapsed into the proper Northern accent of his childhood, something she'd only heard from him when he was slandering his father or out of his mind with pain.

"That's why Lucius made me leave. He didn't want to have to replace his furniture."

"Well, thank you for giving me your wand. I don't want to replace my furniture, either."

"Hermione," he said, suddenly very serious. He bent over slightly so that he was looking straight into her eyes. His eyes, so dark brown they might have been black, were so dilated she couldn't see any of the brown anymore. "I'm quite high right now."

She laughed. "I'd noticed."

Severus nodded sagely, then took himself off into her kitchen to fix himself something to eat. Amused, she retured the piano to its usual place on the shelf and watched him jab awkwardly at the microwave before giving up and reheating the curry she'd had for lunch the previous afternoon with wandless magic.

He wolfed the curry down like a starving man, and left the dish in the sink before wandering out to the sitting room. He found her wireless and poked at it until he found a staticy station playing something by the Dubliners.

"My mum loved folk music, and my dad loved drinking songs. This was where they came together," he said, nodding happily along. She'd never heard him refer to his parents like they were people before—it was always the tropes he'd relegated them to, his hateful Muggle father and the beaten-down wife.

Hermione was going to say something, but then he was singing along at the top of his lungs. He had good pitch, but his voice wasn't suited to the songs—he was a bass, perfect for slow, full songs; he was currently singing along to dancing and drinking songs.

He was in the middle of a bawdy song about a mermaid when he remembered she was there, and dragged her out into the open space where the piano had been to dance. He dragged her through the steps of a reel or a jig (she had no idea), scowling like that familiar menace of the classroom whenever she did something wrong (which happened often). The next song, Red is the Rose, was too slow for the dance, and he left her to her own devices so that he could stand on the coffee table and sing along.

"_Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows. Fair is the lily of the valley. Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne. But my love is fairer than any._"

It was quite possibly the best show she'd seen in ages. He had a beautiful, low, thrumming voice. She'd known that already; she'd sat through innumerable lectures listening to him. She'd never heard him use his voice like this, though.

"_Come over the hills, my bonnie Irish lass. Come over the hills to your darling. You choose the rose, love, and I'll make the vow. And I'll be your true love forever_."

And then it was over, but the show continued. He said something rude about Irishmen, and then continued to stand on the table, stomping his foot and clapping the beat as he sang the Rocky Road to Dublin, tempo pushing faster and faster. After that it was Seven Drunken Nights, of which the radio only played five of them; disgusted, Severus turned it off and sang her the last two verses. She was on the floor by the end of it, rolling from the sheer hilarity of Severus Snape, of all people, singing that particular song to her.

"I sang that song to Lily once," he told her, hopping down off the table after taking a theatrical bow. "She blushed and didn't speak to me for two days."

"You scandalized her?"

"We were thirteen."

Hermione chuckled, holding out her hand and drawing him down to sit next to her against the wall where she'd been sitting since her furniture was all too small and stacked in the corner from when she'd had the piano out. She wondered who Lily was, but it wasn't the right time to ask him.

"Did you even know what the song was talking about?"

"Oh, yes. Dear ol' Dad showed me."

"_Showed_ you?"

"Indeed." He sighed, and it was a tired, resigned sort of sound. "Mum fought him at first, saying how it was inappropriate, telling me to look away, go away. But he wouldn't have it—he was drunk as a skunk, of course. She submitted eventually. Wouldn't look at me for the longest time after. He didn't even remember he'd done it."

"Your dad sounds like a real winner, Sev," she said as lightly as she could, wondering if he was sitting close enough that he could feel her shaking. She wanted to find his father's bones, dig them up, and burn them. Or spit on his grave. _Something_.

"Charming man," Severus said, smirking darkly. "Gods, I'm starving. Do you have any more curry?"

And he was off again, raiding her fridge. She was out of curry, but he found sandwich things and set about assembling.

"What's the intended dosage on that potion you made for Mrs. Goyle?" she asked, because Severus Snape was prone to brooding and sulking, especially when an uncomfortable topic came up.

"A drop diluted in morning tea," he answered promptly, then filled his mouth with sandwich.

"No wonder you're—"

"Flying high?"

"Yes."

He chuckled merrily and polished off his sandwich in three bites. His plate joined the bowl from the curry in the sink.

"Do you want me to give you something?"

"Course not. I want to enjoy it. That's why I came here."

"Really?" That was almost flattering.

"You're the only Occlumens I know outside Dumbledore. I can be happy for thirty hours and nobody will be the wiser." He smiled sleepily at her, then frowned. "Unless you tell."

"Nobody would believe me."

"An excellent point," he said, jabbing a finger in her direction and then pausing to look at his finger as if it was doing something odd.


	10. Chapter Nine

And then came the night of Slughorn's party.

Severus seethed through his preparations, applying every curse word he knew to Minerva (she'd managed to talk her way out of attending), and using his best glare on her when he encountered her in the entrance hall on his way out.

"You look mighty fine tonight, Severus," she commented, looking amused. He glared and swept past her. "Have fun, then!"

The rude gesture she received might have held more weight if she'd spent any time at all in the Muggle world, but he was fairly sure she got the idea.

He was dressed up, pressed slacks and silk waistcoat under his heavy dress robes. The waistcoat was solid gray. The robes were black brocade. They'd been bloody expensive, and he was still trying to figure out why he'd bought them. He could have just worn the same robes he'd worn to the Yule Ball the previous year, but he'd been in Madam Malkin's to have one of his frock coats repaired properly after an incident with some fourth year Hufflepuff, and he'd seen them and, on what he told himself was a whim, had Malkin take his measurements for them.

Damn it all, he even had a new cravat to match the waistcoat.

He was still scowling when he arrived at the party. Slughorn's house was large, lit with golden fairy lights, and bubbling over with warmth. It was nestled in a little Irish wizarding conclave, and there had been no attempt whatsoever to disguise the magic taking place.

Ice sculptures the size of Muggle cars posed around the yard, changing positions every minute or so. Drinks trays floated around the crowd by themselves. The air was warm and pleasant even outside, and the light snowfall mysteriously stopped at the property line and about six feet above Severus's head.

It was beautiful, and it pissed him off even more than the itching cravat tied around his neck.

Severus went inside. It was equally, horribly festive.

Rich green pine garlands wound around the banisters, decorated with red-striped candy canes. There was a tall Christmas tree in the main room, decorated with white candles and red velvet ribbons and bow. There were white tablecloths on all the appropriate surfaces. Food was laid out on shining silver platters.

The rooms _shone_ with holiday spririt. The whole place was done up somewhere between tasteful and oppulant, only hitting a few sour notes.

The people populating the rooms were less successful. They were all dressed to impress, of course. Most people wore black or white robes with red and green accents. A few had gone for silver and gold. There was one instance of garish yellow that he supposed was supposed to be gold. One witch was wearing violet.

And Hermione Granger was in silk that floated around her like smoke. If he had to put one color to the fabric, it would be charcoal, but that was horribly inadequate. The robes shifted color in the changing light, and he couldn't tell if it was spelled or simply well-made. There was a short collar, purely decorative, and long sleeves that clung to her arms all the way down to her wrists, where they came to points that emphasized the delicate shape of her hands. The bodice clung as tightly as the sleeves, showing her narrow waist and the feminine swell of hips as the silk flared out into a full skirt, the colors rippling from pale gray to black. It was the neckline that was noticeable—a thin strip of flesh exposed from collar to where the skirt began to flare out at the natural waist, just above her naval, showing the inside curve of her breasts. The gap wasn't large enough to be ostentatious, and she wore the robes so well that it wasn't tacky. She had dark eye makeup and deep red lips, her hair piled in artful curls on top of her head. She looked like a bloody queen, and everybody was watching her.

"What have you just done to the gingerbread men?" he asked, coming up beside her. She didn't jump, but he knew he'd surprised her because she didn't brush his mind in greeting until a moment after she smirked at him.

"You'll just have to watch and see, won't you?"

The lipstick was distracting. He'd never noticed her mouth so much before.

Feeling wrong-footed, he took a glass off one of the hovering trays for each of them and handed her one. She smirked again and turned so that they were standing with their arms pressed together without actually looking at each other. For awhile, they simply stood together and watched the party going on around them.

"I've been instructed to be mysterious," she said at long last. He glanced at her, raising an eyebrow, but she wasn't looking at him.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Nobody knows me, of course, so I show up in a ridiculously enticing dress and shoes that make me worry about my ankles, and I smirk and keep aloof, only really to talk to members of the Order. Slughorn is bound to be drawn in eventually."

"Is that why you've put a charm on your tits?" He regreted it the instant he said it. She'd know that he'd been looking, and not just looking but looking hard enough and long enough to notice the spell.

To his surprise, she laughed. She had every right to dump her drink on his head and call him a letch, but instead she laughed. It was a tinkling, sweet sound. It made the men in the surrounding crowd turn and look at her, eyes raking over her. (They looked long and hard enough to notice the charm, too, but he suspected they missed it.)

"_Please_ don't eat me!"

The shriek interrupted what could very well have been an awkward conversation. Somebody had finally made their way over to the desserts table and picked up a gingerbread man. They'd dropped it when it started shouting.

People laughed when they realized what had happened and a crowd gathered around the cookies.

"No, no!"

"Really, I'll taste _horrible_."

"Eat _him_, not _me_! He's got more frosting!"

"Help! Help!"

They each seemed to have one phrase charmed into them. The shorter the phrase, the more they repeated it before the charm wore off. There was one that simply shrieked, and it went on and on.

Severus suppressed a smile, turning to look down at Hermione. She was giggling helplessly. She turned away to hide her face—presumably to keep her aloof, mysterious cover—and ended up pressed into his side. The tits he'd been observing, he realized, had not been charmed, at least not the way he'd first thought. No, that curve was all natural. And it was moving nicely against him as she laughed.

"Well, have yourself a good grope, then, Sev," she said, and he realized he'd been staring again. And she'd stopped laughing. And she'd been watching him look.

He tried to apologize—_Bollocks! He'd almost had a friend, and then he'd gone and ruined it by being a sodding testosterone-lackey…_—but he couldn't seem to remember words. And then she surprised him, again, by taking his hand and actually placing his fingers against her skin just below her collarbone. He froze. She loosened her grip, but when he didn't move his hand of his own accord, she smirked at him and dragged his fingers down. Down.

_Oh, gods…_

There it was. His eyes could see only pretty pale flesh all in feminine lines, but his fingers could feel a smooth crest of old scar tissue. He recalled a raised red line beside her collarbone and wondered if it was the same scar.

He looked up at her face, a question on his tongue, but her eyes fluttered shut. He would have gaped at her if he had had less practice at minding his expression—she was _enjoying_ his touch?—but before he could process her reaction, she'd removed his hand from her breast, but not from her hand. She squeezed his fingers gently, held his hand for a moment, and then finally let him go. She was still standing very close, her back to the rest of the room.

The crowd was still focused on those screaming gingerbread men.

He had a brief fantasy that involved putting his hand back on her skin, sliding it under the dress, cupping her breast. Had she charmed her lipstick to stay in place, or would it smear across his face if he kissed her?

The fantasy came crashing down when he remembered that she was his student. She was currently tucked away at Hogwarts, studying for her winter exams and planning what to get her idiot friends for Christmas. It was worse than waking up on her couch and realizing the anti-depressant that had been forced on him had run its course and he was back to a reailty that didn't involve singing bawdy songs at her until she giggled helplessly.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, because it seemed like the thing to say.

"It was my first scar from the war," she said, her voice far away. "The attack at the end of fifth year… we were so bloody young."

"At the end of—you get _that_ in just a few months?"

Her face shuttered immediately. She looked blankly up at him, a false smile in place. "Sorry. Ignore me. I wasn't supposed to say that."

Her hand found the spot he knew the scar to be, fingers pressed against it.

"We could change it," he suggested. "We know what's going to happen. We could change it."

"No we can't. That's why Dumbledore made sure I could keep him out, so that he wouldn't be tempted to try to do things _better_." She sighed, met his eyes. Her eyes were the color of coffee with cream, and right now they were very, very tired. Old. Hurting. "Better the devil you know."

"Somebody dies." She didn't refute him; in fact, she almost looked confused. "In that attack. Somebody dies."

"Yes," she said, her shoulders slumping. "But I was the worst injury. All things considered, taking into account the number of children running around… I've run the arithmancy—_so _many times. Any difference, any interference, any plan that I've come up with… We fail more often than not. When we come out alive, we're worse off on the larger scale. The… Things change, after the attack. Things move into the open. The Ministry…" She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and looked at him. Steely resolve replaced the ancient exhaustion in her eyes. "It has to happen. It's not pleasant, and it's not nice, but it's necessary."

_You sound a bit like Dumbledore_, he thought, and looked away. She'd heard the thought; he could see it in the hurt expression that flitted across her face, just for the briefest moment, before her Occlumency shields had snapped into place and her face had gone so carefully blank.

"Ah, Severus," Lucius said, drifting over from the far side of the room. He wore rich green robes, all shining velvet and artful draping. "I'm sorry. I seem to have scared off your lady friend."

Severus smirked, wanting to frown. Hermione had vanished into the crowd. He wondered if it had to do with his own offensive behavior, or the arrival of Lucius Malfoy.

"I have a feeling I will find her later," Severus replied, and Lucius smiled. It was the warm, friendly smile that had become so rare in the last few months. It was very easy to forget that Lucius had been his friend.

"The two of you looked… close." There was a deliberate pause, a question without asking. Severus raised an eyebrow.

_She's probably my best friend; she calls me 'Sev' sometimes. She's my student, too. It's confusing._

"She works at an apothecary I've visited a few times. I've never seen her socially before, but it seems she wrangled an invitation through an acquaintance."

"Are you in love with her?"

"You have all the tact of a first-year Gryffindor."

_What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I'm not in love with her. Merlin's damned liver spots, she's my student._

Lucius merely smirked, eyes dancing with mirth. "Come, then. If you're not going after her, you'll come with me and say hello to my wife."

"And how is dear Narcissa?"

"Angry with me. Again."

"Cissy? With you? Surely not."

"I hope that beauty of yours has a better temper than mine."

"What did you do this time?"

Lucius actually looked guilty. Severus smiled.

"So it _was_ something you did."

"Shut up, Severus," Lucius said petulantly, sounding seventeen again for a moment. Then they were on Narcissa—creamy white robes with a white fur collar, and a shimmering dress beneath the color of red wine—and Lucius was all solicitous charm for his wife. "Narcissa, dear, look who I found sulking in the corner."

Severus almost smiled. It was very like when they were young, Lucius drawing him into the fold of his many friends and acquaintances. Of course, those friends and acquaintances were mostly Death Eaters, so it hadn't been the best thing—but it was well-meant.

"Hello, Severus. How are you?"

"Bored to death. And yourself?"

Narcissa chuckled demurely. They got to talking about Draco, of course.

A long time later, after discovering that Narcissa Malfoy wanted another child and Lucius was reluctant to aid in that venture, Severus found himself outside again. The ice sculptures were still posing and preening. The air smelled of pine.

Hermione stood at the edge of the balcony, looking not out on the garden but up at the sky. It was a clear night, the snow stopped long ago. The moon was a waning cresecent, and the stars were out.

She was dressed in smoke and bathed in starlight.

Something in his chest clenched, reminding him that he had to apologize for… earlier.

"I figured questions about me would be easier to answer if I wasn't there," she said, not looking down from the sky.

"I could have introduced you to the Malfoys," he said, teasing. The ease evaporated when he noticed her finger the hidden scar between her breasts. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It wasn't your fault."

She looked down, then, and smiled at him. She kept her lips closed, and he had the sudden sense that she was not nearly as confident as the dress and dramatic makeup suggested—she was worried she might have lipstick on her teeth. It was unbelievably endearing.

"Are you free to go?" he asked her impulsively. He had the mad thought to show her his home at Spinner's End. He had books there that she would like. He'd been meaning to add her to the wards for some time, as well. Just in case. "Did you get Slughorn sufficiently interested?"

"Interested and wary," she said, nodding. "We'll see if it works."

"Shall we?"

"Lets."

They did a round of the house, saying their goodbyes. Lucius gave him a knowing sort of look, eyes trailing the silk-clad figure currently being fawned over one last time by Horace Slughorn. He retrieved his cloak and joined Hermione at the front gate.

"Well then," she said, tucking her arm into his. "Off we go."

"Allow me."

He Side-Along Apparated her to Manchester, and she looked up at him, curious, when she realized they weren't in London or Edinburgh.

"Where are we?" She was tense, and she stepped away from him just enough to give them both freedom of movement. She had her wand in her hand, and he hadn't seen how it got there.

"Manchester."

"On purpose?"

He scowled at her, then realized she hadn't been insulting the place in and of itself, but wondering if he'd intentionally brought them to Manchester and not been somehow altered in their route.

Severus brought her out of the alley, around a corner, and there it was. His dillapitated little house. Brown, battered. The front gate thunked in the wind (It had stopped snowing in Ireland, but it was a snowy, miserable night in Manchester.) The big tree at the front corner of the house would be rubbing its branches on his childhood bedroom window. There was a drift of dirty snow up the steps and across the front porch, ending in a smudge across the bottom of the front door.

_Ugly thing. Why did you bring her here?_

"Welcome to Spinner's End," he said, opening the thunking gate just so, preventing it from squeaking. Gnarled bits of overgrown bushes, currently looking quite dead, poked out of the snow on either side of the gate.

"This is where you grew up?" Her wand was no longer in her hand. She looked calm, interested. She pulled her cloak more firmly around her and walked through the gate to stand next to him.

"Delightful, isn't it?"

"It looks like a haunted house out of a story book."

"I believe that is the tale the children of the neighborhood tell each other."

"Have you ever enchanted the curtains to flutter ominously?"

"I would never do such a thing."

"Of course not. Such pranks are below the great and powerful Severus Snape."

"I work at a boarding school. I deal with obnoxious children. The last thing I need, when I'm here, is children daring each other to run up and touch the door or something."

"I'm going to charm your curtains to flutter ominously. And then I'm going to charm the gate so that any child who touches it has the sudden desire to hide behind the tree across the street. You can sit at your window just there and watch them."

"No wonder you're such a delinquent."

"You don't even know what happened to Dolores Umbridge yet."

"What happens to the toad?"

"I'm not telling."

They smiled at each other. (She didn't have any lipstick on her teeth.) Then he turned and flicked his wand at the house, moving it in the familiar, if complex, forms to add her to the wards. When he was done, he used his wand to clear the front path and the porch of snow, then gestured for her to go first.

He gave her the grand tour. The narrow entryway that really needed a runner or something to hide the faded floorboards. The front sitting room with its walls covered in book shelves. The tiny corner of a kitchen and the dining area that went with it, the table covered in layers of old stains and gouges. The cellar magically Expanded to have room for his potions experimentation, the tables and cabinets empty since their usual contents were currently at Hogwarts. Up the rickety stairs to the wide landing with the large window giving a view of the baren lawn in front of the house, the street, and the connected houses across. Two bedrooms, both bare of anything beyond the essentials, the furniture sagging and worn. A tiny bathroom with horrible pea green tile on every possible surface.

He noticed the way she didn't look away from anything. The broken spindles on the banister from one of the many times his father had fallen down the stairs when drunk. The way the worktable in the cellar didn't quite hide the mildew stain on the wall. The bare mattress in the larger bedroom; the musty linens on the narrow bed he'd slept on as a boy.

Severus wished he hadn't brought her here.

"Severus," she said quietly, coming up behind him. They were in the sitting room, and she'd been looking at his books. At some point, she'd pulled her hair out of the elaborate bun, and it pooled around her face and shoulders in strange smooth waves.

"Yes?"

"I need to ask you a question. Because you're my friend—probably my best friend—and I… just need to know."

"Alright." He dreaded the question just from the look on her face even when his blood was rushing at the thought that she considered him her best friend. (Even just probably.)

"Why did you join the Death Eaters?" He inhaled sharply, feeling like she'd slapped him. Of course she'd wonder, of course she'd ask that. It was a valid concern, he supposed; how could he consider her a friend if he hated Muggle-borns? "Before you lay an egg! I just want to know because I _am_ Muggle-born…" He wondered what sort of expression he'd been making for to jump at him like that. She put a hand on his arm, squeezed it gently. He schooled his face to neutrality, blinking down at her. She was standing very close. "I don't want the awkwardness later, finding out you only tolerate me for the cause."

"Hermione, stop," he said, his hand finding hers on his arm. It was awkward, for him. He wasn't used to comforting with touch. Hell, he wasn't used to being touched period. "I don't hate Muggles, I don't hate Muggle-borns. I hated my drunk Muggle father, yes, but… I joined because I was an angry teenaged boy, and I thought they were the only ones who would have me. I—"

"You don't have to tell me more. That's enough. That's all I need to know."

"I was in love with Lily Evans—Lily Potter." The words tumbled out of him and wouldn't stop."We grew up together; she was the only friend I had before Hogwarts. I fell in love with her, but she fell in love with James Potter. We'd stopped being friends long before that, but I was… attached."

"I didn't know."

"Nobody knows."

_Nobody but Dumbledore, and he's kept his promise._

She didn't understand. She looked up at him and he could read her curiosity in her face, feel the question in her mind.

_In for a penny, out for a pound._

"I was angry that they were engaged. I went home, came here, at the end of my seventh year, and the two of them were sitting at the park where I'd first met Lily, talking and laughing." He gestured out the west wall, toward the park. He hadn't been there in years. "And then I came through the front door and my father was drunk again. I left. I went to Lucius's. He's a couple years older, out of Hogwarts by then and just married to the youngest Black sister. He'd been a friend at school, and still after he finished. His father, Abraxus, was one of the Dark Lord's first supporters. A financial backer, then one of the first Marked.

"So I met the Dark Lord that day, and he was very charming. The Malfoys convinced him I was worthy, even if I was just a half-blood, and they financed my apprenticeship. I went off to Norway for a year and tried to forget it all. Then I came back and the Death Eaters weren't a—particularly intense—political faction. They were closer to what they are now. And I was too indebted to back out without getting killed, and I was still angry.

"I came home briefly, and discovered my father had drunk himself into a well-deserved death, leaving my mother destitute and alone. The Princes—that's her family—had disowned her when she married a Muggle, you see. They thought it fitting she was left high and dry when he died.

"I lived at home after that, looked after her while I brewed for the Dark Lord. Mostly poisons. I didn't think much of it—imagined pouring each one down my father's throat, or James Potter's.

"My mother killed herself one day in the middle of summer. Just a random day. I don't know why that day and, honestly, it doesn't really matter. The day after that, I took the Mark. Nobody else would have me, and it made me feel like I was sticking it to my father and Potter and the new Mrs. Potter.

"For awhile, it was… tolerable. I won't claim to have liked it, but it didn't disgust me the way it should have." He looked away from her, ashamed. He spoke to the dark maw of the staircase leading up to the bedrooms. "I had influence within the group for the potions I brewed. People did me favors to earn my goodwill. It was entirely new to me, that camaraderie and exchange.

"When Slughorn retired, the Dark Lord sent me to apply for the position. He trusted me to spy on Dumbledore, and I reveled in that trust. I would have remained loyal, willfully blind to the atrocities, except for the prophecy. Because he thought it meant Lily and I still loved her. He promised not to kill her if he didn't have to, but I was close enough to him, I'd seen enough standing at his side with my little cabinet full of poisons, to know he wouldn't hesitate. He would apologize later; tell me I deserved better anyway.

"So I went to Dumbledore. I confessed all. I begged him to hide the Potters. I agreed to spy for him. I offered him anything if he'd just keep her safe.

"But she died. He didn't keep her safe.

"He tried, though, which was more than the Dark Lord had. He'd had another spy, one I didn't know about. Pettigrew. More afraid of the Dark Lord than loyal to the Potters. It opened my eyes, the… pain of losing her. I could see what I'd been a part of, what the Death Eaters had become while I was tucked away brewing."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I." He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, or tried to. He'd had it braided back for the party. Annoyed, he yanked the tie from it and carded his fingers through it, knowing it would be kinky from the braid but not caring. "Anyway." They were still standing very close. "That's why I joined the Death Eaters. I don't hate Muggles at large, just a few individulas. And I have a history of loving Muggle-born witches, so you have nothing to worry about so far as the awkwardness of being my friend goes. At least not awkwardness because of blood. I'm sure I can find some other reason to bollocks it up."

_Good God, did you just imply you might love her? Stupid wanker, what were you thinking?_

She smiled, then leaned up and kissed his cheek. He blinked down at her and couldn't for the life of him think of something to say. Then she blushed and laughed, and rubbed at his cheek with her thumb.

"Sorry. I'm no good with makeup; I got lipstick all over you."

\\\

She wasn't there when he next went looking. He'd been Summoned just after dinner the day before, hours before Arthur Weasley was attacked. There had been coffee and mint liquour, and he hadn't realized that he was being kept busy until it was past midnight and the damned snake slithered back into the room, fangs bloody.

"Ah, Nagini. Successful, I see," the Dark Lord said. He and the snake hissed at each other for awhile. Severus glanced around the room, noting the signs of nerves among the others. Lucius was looking smug, which probably meant that he'd had a hand in getting the snake into position.

_So I am being kept out of the way so Dumbledore can't ask me to put together the antivenin._ He scowled at Pettigrew, then smirked at the way the fool skittered around the snake. That was the reason Severus had been allowed to develop an antivenin at all—Nagini could smell the rat on Pettigrew and had been known to bite.

It was nearing midnight when the Dark Lord sent him with Lucius and a handful of others to the Ministry. They all had vague excuses should they encounter trouble, but it was a government facility outside standard business hours, and Fudge refused to step up security because he refused to believe there was a reason for it.

They didn't find quite the open entry to the Department of Mysteries they were looking for, and he was glad. He didn't want anything to do with the damned prophecy.

Instead of empty halls and a dead Order member, there was Kingsley Shacklebolt interviewing portraits and a junior Auror with him looking tired and annoyed. There was a skeleton crew of clerks already about. There was even a grouchy-looking wizard behind the wand check desk, though he kept his head down when they entered and he saw Lucius.

"I believe you had something to show me?" Severus said as they moved down the hall past Shacklebolt.

"Patience, Severus," Lucius said smoothly.

They dithered in a random courtroom for just less than an hour. Lucius all but pouted. The others paced and swore. Severus took a seat on one of the lower observation benches and simply waited, watching them. It had been almost amusing.

Severus clapped Lucius on the shoulder as they left. The poor bastard had to go back and explain to the Dark Lord that they'd been foiled. Severus wanted no part of that, especially not when he had a much more pleasant alternative.

"You're off to see that apothecary from Slughorn's party," Lucius said, smirking.

"Perhaps."

Lucius would probably have made some vulgar comment—or worse, asked leading questions about his intentions toward her that Severus didn't know the answers to. (Or maybe he did, but he didn't want to tell them to himself let alone Lucius.)

And then he'd arrived in Edinburgh, but she hadn't been there. It had been odd. He'd never been there when she was gone.

He paced. Raided her fridge. Took a nap. He considered showering, but that seemed too invasive. He paced some more; it was nearly four in the morning. He had to be back to Hogwarts for the last day of classes before the students left for Christmas in three hours.

He fell asleep again, and woke just in time to Apparate to the gates of Hogwarts and sprint up to castle. His lack of proper rest, not to mention a strange apprehension itching at the back of his mind that he just knew had to do with Hermione, meant a hard day for his students. He assigned essays that he never planned to read and handed out detentions with Filch like they were candy. He glared at Granger the younger all through lunch in the Great Hall, picking at his food.

His afternoon classes were even worse than his morning classes. He spent a lot of time glaring at the students from his desk, watching them brew as he drank cup after cup of tea.

Instead of going to dinner, he dismissed his last class early (informing them all that they were utter imbeciles) and slammed his office door behind him. So help them if they didn't tidy up after themselves before they left the room.

_What the fuck is wrong with you?_ he wondered, but then he decided all he really needed was a nap.

"Hello, Sev."

"Hermione."

"I was going to surprise you in your sitting room after dinner, but then I realized I didn't have the password to your rooms."

He gaped at her for a moment, only glad his teacup didn't rattle against the saucer in his hand. "The wards on my rooms are keyed to the wards on my house."

"You mean the younger me could have waltzed into your personal chambers at any moment?"

"If the younger you had any reason to enter my rooms, I should think it would be a good idea to let her—you—in." He set the tea down, trying not to notice that she was sitting in his chair behind his desk, and more importantly that it didn't bother him. Such an invasion of his space should bother him. "You were always in the thick of things."

"Still am," she said, cocking her head to the side and almost smiling at him.

He sat in the student chair he hadn't charmed to be uncomfortable, crossing his legs lazily and looking at her. He was strangely aware that his bad mood had evaporated at the sight of her. He was strangely aware of _her_.

"Have you heard about Mr. Weasley, then?"

"Which one?"

"Oh. I'd assumed you would have heard. Arthur Weasley was attacked last night."

"The snake."

"Yes."

"Did he survive?"

She blinked at him. "Yes, of course. That's why Dumbledore had me in his office all morning. He wanted a word about my interference."

"Or lack thereof? He was angry you didn't forewarn him." Severus rolled his eyes.

"No, actually." Hermione said, running her left thumb along the white scar on the index finger next to it. She watched her own movement, frowning. "I knew it was going to happen, of course. I've been exchanging letters with a contact in the hospital, Albert Clooney. Do you know him? He's the hospital's resident potioneer."

"I've heard of him, but never met him."

"Anyway. I told him I've been working on an antivenin project, convinced him to let me bring in some samples to consult with him, conveniently scheduled the meeting for when I knew the hospital would need antivenins."

"And the headmaster was angry you interfered," Severus said, nodding and leaning back in his chair. He had relaxed enough now that he could feel the cold coming off her in waves—she was Occluding like she had been that night that they'd been set up to be a show for Moody. Her instructed to brew at headquarters after playing the dragon, him doing the brewing when Dumbledore dropped the hint that Black would be away.

_Goddamn manipulative bastard._

She smiled at him, and he looked away; the thought had leaked to her.

"Furious." The jars on the shelf nearest her were shuddering in place.

He had to tamp down an urge to gather her up in his lap and rock her like a child. It wasn't something he'd ever felt before, that overwhelming urge to comfort an adult. It would surprise most people to know that he liked children, liked teaching, liked being the Head of Slytherin, but he did. Hell, he kept a tin of chocolate biscuits in his desk for when a hanky would be too impersonal but a hug wouldn't do either. (Yes, he'd been known to hug the children when they needed it.)

"Did he—?"

"Of course he did."

"Would you like something for the headache?"

"I already pilfered something from your cabinet."

Severus nodded.

"Let's talk about something else."

"What?"

"Anything." She sighed and sat back in his chair, leaning her head against the back rest. He was too tall to do that, his head always flopping over the top of the back rest and making his neck hurt. She looked comfortable. "Why do you hate Harry Potter so much?"

"Because he's a cocky little ponce." She laughed, so he kept going. "He's always running off into trouble with half the information and none of the skill. And he looks like his father, and you already heard that story."

"Hm," she hummed agreement, and he raised an eyebrow at her. She shrugged, not the least bit sheepish for seeming to agree with him that her best friend—childhood best friend at least; she'd told him _he _was her best friend now, and didn't that set his spine tingling—was an idiot. "Don't give me that look. You snuck up on us enough times to know that I spent most of my time trying to talk the boys out of things."

"And I know that when _you _were involved in the planning, it was a rare thing for the three of you to get caught."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"Of course it was."

He smirked at her. The cold of her Occlumency had seeped away with the joking, and the jars weren't verging on implosion any longer. (Which was good, because they'd been sitting there long enough that they'd be hell to clean up.)

He settled in to keep talking, to ease her away from those cold shields between her and the world.

"It's not a simple thing, of course. I hated James Potter quite fervently, as you well know. I met him on the train first year, and we took an instant disliking to each other. I was sitting with Lily in the carriage, reading _Hogwarts: A History_ together, if I remember correctly. We were joined by other first years eventually—Benedict Malfoy (a cousin of Lucius's), Remus Lupin, Gretchen Goyle (though it was Prewett at the time, she's a cousin of some sort to Molly Weasley). And then in came James Potter and Sirius Black, already attached at the hip.

"Lily and I had decided it was Ravenclaw for us. Malfoy was looking forward to Slytherin. Lupin was just glad to be there. Goyle was taking a nap. Then in came Potter and Black, confident and charistmatic even at eleven. Going on and on about Gryffindor, how Black was going to throw the proverbial wrench in his family's expectations.

"I didn't realize it, but I'd already lost Lily then. She was Sorted into Gryffindor, and I decided it was because Potter and Black had been going on about it on the train. I had grand schemes for getting back at them in my head when I was Sorted, and I was just glad I didn't end up in Ravenclaw all alone. Or in Gryffindor with those two, even if Lily would be there too.

"Then it was Slytherin against Gryffindor. The Marauders formed up fairly quickly, as did their dislike of me—I was always unkept, and it bothered them. That ws how it began. My parents bought my robes too big so they'd last longer as I grew, and this was before we switched to the current uniform with trousers and ties (that wasn't until '85, '83 maybe—a political move within the Board of Governors, Malfoy and his bloc backing the proposal to make Muggleborns more comfortable in their uniforms by adapting elements of Muggle school uniforms). It was a plain robe, collar to ankle. Mine was bought secondhand, so it was a touch grayed and a bit frayed at the cuffs. And the sleeves went down over my hands constantly because I always forgot to roll them up, and the bottom was held up by safety pins. I'll find you a picture sometime; it was horrendous. Lily helped me research Shrinking Charms, and we got me sorted out by Halloween.

"And then Harry Potter arrived at school and while his uniform fit him, all the clothes he brought from home were much too big. All I could think about, after seeing him his first weekend, was that if his father had done a proper job of hiding and not trusted that damned rat, Lily would be alive and her son wouldn't be going around in too-large hand-me-downs.

"But you're right, and I'm off track. I dislike Harry Potter because he takes after his father."

"With his mother's eyes, I'm told."

"It is uncanny," Severus said, nodding thoughtfully. She was still Occluding; in fact, the cold was intensifying again. That worried him, mostly because he didn't know why she would be throwing up more mental shields when they were talking about something so innocuous. Or at least innocuous to her. "And I rather botched it in the beginning. You could say I flinched—I saw him there in my classroom, talking and laughing and looking _exactly_ like the boy who bullied me all through school, and I… I'm not proud of it."

He couldn't imagine saying this to anybody else. Really, he was having a hard time believing he was even telling her. And he loved her.

_Shit! Since when?_

"That set the tone," he said, playing casual. All the while, his mind was reeling.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Since when? Does it matter? But good grief, how did this happen? Fucking _love_ again? _

"I let his presence antagonize me even though he had no idea, and his temper fed into the scenerios nicely."

_I already did this once. It was painful and it ended horribly. _

"And then the Dark Lord was back… Dumbledore used to harp on me to let bygones be bygones and help the boy, but now it's good I have memories of Potter glaring at me through Lily's eyes, because the Dark Lord knows the boy doesn't trust me enough to follow me out of the castle some stormy night to meet his death."

_Not that his mother's eyes mean much to me anymore, other than the oddness of seeing them in James's face. Shit! How did this happen? No, of course not how, that's easy enough. Hell, it was practically inevitable. How about why. _Why _did this happen? Why now? Fuckall. She's a student, not to mention off-limits as per Dumbledore. Well, not entirely 'as per Dumbledore;' that conversation hasn't actually happened yet. Hopefully it won't happen. Ever._

_Shit._


	11. Chapter Ten

Hermione was having trouble keeping secrets.

No, that wasn't right. She was keeping the secrets just fine, it was only that she was beginning to feel the need to intercede when she knew she shouldn't, couldn't.

When Mr. Weasley had been attacked, Hermione had dithered around Grimmauld Place for days. She kept rationalizing it to herself, first for sharing information and then against. In the end, she had been in contact with that idiot potioneer from St. Mungo's and brewed a dozen different variations on common antivenin bases and acquired half a dozen bezoars; they'd been chatting about her made-up project when the call had come down and they'd both been rushed upstairs. The Healers had thought it was just so wonderfully lucky she happened to have been by that night with those particular potions and in that quantity, ready for quick experimentation. And they'd used four of the bezoars.

Dumbledore had shouted at her for just shy of an hour. He'd made it very clear that she wasn't supposed to do anything like that again, no matter who was in danger. He'd spent the rest of the morning alternating between trying to get her to tell him what the next few months would bring and railing at her about how important it was for her to keep her secrets.

And then she'd retreated to Severus's office and took a potion for her damned headache because Dumbledore's curiosity was a son of a bitch.

The worst part was that he'd swirled into his office looking like the great black bat of the dungeons the students liked to say he was, but ruined the whole thing by holding a teacup to him like a lifeline. He'd been frowning fiercely, but then he saw her and he… unclenched. It was the strangest thing.

She knew he told her about the Marauders and Harry because he was trying to calm her down, to help her drop her Occlumency, but it ended up giving her more of a reason to try to keep her thoughts to herself: Lily and Lily's eyes. Was she an idiot? He had this perfect childhood sweetheart, and she'd seen pictures of Lily Potter before…

Hopeless.

\\\

On the evening of January 13, Hermione held her tongue. In fact, she'd avoided anybody related to the Order since Christmas. The closest she'd come to contact was a kitschy Muggle birthday card sent to Severus on his birthday, and that hardly counted because she hadn't even put a personalized message in it, just signed it "H."

She hadn't been able to sleep, so she'd just kept drinking. It was her usual practice to have a few drinks before bed to slow herself down, to dull the persistant thoughts and memories. She'd had a sweet vodka-lemonade cocktail until she'd run out of the vodka, then it was her standard whiskey and water. She nursed the drink, flipping through the pages of and old Healing textbook.

Hermione tossed back the last of her drink and got up to pour herself another. Her legs were unsteady, which actually made her smile. It had been a long time since she'd been properly drunk. That was mostly Severus's fault, actually. She'd been spending time with him, chatting or brewing, or just sending letters back and forth. He liked to send her long missives telling her how awful she was as a student, how over-long her essays were, how obnoxious it was that she memorized the assigned readings, how ridiculous her hair looked that day.

She hadn't been drinking as much lately because Severus didn't like it when she got drunk. His father had been a drunk. And she didn't need to distract herself from the memories with drink when he distracted her from the memories with conversation and thought and… just being in the room, whether it was physically or just on paper.

Severus Snape was damned distracting.

Hermione poured herself another drink, leaning her hips against the counter and twirling her tumbler slowly, watching the amber liquid move.

She missed him. She hadn't seen him in more than a week. That was a good thing, since it meant he hadn't dragged himself, bleeding again, to her flat. She wished she had an excuse to see him, though. She already wrote him too often; the headmaster had noticed, and while he hadn't talked to her about it, he'd given her one of those looks.

It was two in the morning and she'd gone from standing by the counter to sitting on it, sipping absentmindedly at her drink and wondering how much longer it would take for her to feel tired. She was exhausted, mentally, but whenever she began to think about sleep she remembered that Bellatrix Lestrange was no longer in Azkaban. Fenrir Greyback. Eight other terrible excuses for human beings. She wondered if Severus had been Summoned for the event, if he'd been called after the escape to brew them restorative elixers and feed them chocolate bars.

The key rattled in the lock and she looked up, but didn't draw her wand. Dumbledore had a key, and Severus had a key. Dumbledore wouldn't come at two in the morning, he'd send her a Patronus to call her to him. Severus, then.

He wore his frock coat but no robes. His hair was shiny with the brewing grease he wore when he brewed complex potions. He looked… shocked. He wasn't Occluding, not anymore, but he had the look of a man who was about to catch up to himself and knew he wouldn't like it.

"You knew?" he asked when he saw her sitting on the counter. The door clicked shut behind him, the lock snicking into place automatically. She raised her tumbler to him, glad that her hand didn't shake, and took another sip.

"It will be all over the papers in the morning. Of course I knew."

"Why didn't you say anything?" He stood in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes narrowing. "What the fuck—"

"Because Dumbledore tore me a new one when I brought antivenin to St. Mungo's before Mr. Weasley was attacked," she said, interrupting him, glaring. "Because he _forbade_ me to breathe a word of anything before it happens. Hell, Sev. It's why he taught me Occlumency."

"But…" he started, then stopped. He ran a hand through his hair, giving it a disgusted look when it came away greasy. He wiped it on his trousers.

"Don't," she said. "I know. I… tried. I begged him to let me give warning, to at least tell him when something big was about to happen."

"He said no."

"He said no." She nodded, swallowed more whiskey. "He said absolutely not. He said that forewarning could change the outcome entirely. He said better the devil you know."

Snape took two quick steps and plucked the tumbler out of her hands, tossing the last of her whiskey back and grimacing. She'd stopped adding water around midnight; she wasn't drinking for the flavor, anyway.

It was difficult to think when he was standing so close, just beside her knees, and when she was, she suddenly realized, quite drunk. She still managed to pour him another drink without spilling any.

"You're drunk," he observed, taking a sip and staring down at her.

"Quite," she said, looking at his shoulders instead of his face. She didn't want him to read her thoughts, not tonight. She didn't have control. There were too many things that could get to him, too many things that would be bad for him to know—not even just things about the war, but… other things.

Things like how much she wanted to touch him. How badly she wanted him to touch her. Not even in a sexual way, though that was certainly present. She just wanted a hug. She wanted him to bump her elbow with his or for him to rest his hand on her shoulder when he reached past her for the bottle to top off his drink.

She'd gone and fallen in love with him, and it was terribly inconvenient. She could never tell him. He didn't think of her like that—hell, she wasn't even sure if he thought of her as a friend half the time. And even if he did, or if he could, they could never do anything about it. The war, the fact that she was still his student in a very real way. And the lecture she'd gotten about not giving away what happened in the future would be nothing compared to the lecture they'd get if the headmaster ever even thought they might be lovers.

_Oh, hell_, she thought, rubbing her eyes. _I don't even care. If he wanted me, I'd be his no matter what the consequence._

She laughed, but it was a pitiful excuse for a laugh, and took the tumbler back from him. She gulped down a few swallows, carefully looking away from him. He took it back and finished it off, refilled it. He held the tumbler to his chest, looking somewhere to the left of her head.

"I thought Black was mad after Azkaban, but he's hale and hearty compared to the Death Eaters they broke out tonight," he said. She noticed that the hand holding the whiskey was shaking. "Most of them were… zealots, at best, before. Devoted in their hatred.

"When I joined the Death Eaters, they were still pretending it was a political faction. They didn't start torturing Muggles on the weekends until… well."

She took the whiskey from him, setting it next to her on the counter. Her hand wouldn't be any steadier than his.

"Bellatrix Lestrange was the worst of them back then. She's in love with the Dark Lord; it's sickening. She _cried _when she realized the Dark Lord's—new?—body, this reincarnated abomination that he's become… he's not up to the task, if you catch my drift. She'd just been reunited with her bloody husband and she wept for the unfairness of another man's dysfunction."

"That is one thing I never thought about," she said, lips twisting into a frown. "Thanks for that."

"Why do you think I brew so many damned kinky potions?"

"Honestly? I hoped you had a deviant streak propped up by your chosen field of mastery."

He laughed, and it was a nice laugh. Surprised.

"In my misspent youth, perhaps," he said. She could hear his smile, but she was still carefully looking away from his face so that she didn't look him in the eye. She wanted to, though. She liked his eyes. "It's his system of reward, you know. You've seen the results of his _dis_pleasure. When we _please _him…"

"You really don't have to tell me." She felt a little sick to her stomach, actually. She hadn't been jealous in a long time, and she found that she still didn't like it. This was worse that Ron with Lavender, though. This was _Severus_.

"He sends us to a private room," he said, a strange tension in his voice. It almost sounded like he felt he owed her an explanation, though she couldn't imagine why. Maybe he did consider her a friend? Maybe he didn't want her thinking he enjoyed sex with poxy Death Eater whores? "I give them—her, Marcella; always the same damned witch—a hallucinogenic sort of thing. She thinks we… well. And I don't have to touch her."

_I'd rather you were punished than have another woman even imagine that she got to have you when I can't_.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and prayed to every deity she'd ever heard of that she hadn't leaked her thought to him. Embarrasing, humiliating. A weakness. And potentially problematic at even continuing being friends if he heard, since he could never want her. She might not be his student, but he saw the younger version of herself, the one that was still his student, more often than he saw _her_. He didn't think of her as a woman; not like that. He hadn't even reacted when she'd been so forward at Slughorn's party; she'd practically shoved her breast in his hand, and he'd apologized.

She tilted forward accidentally, and her forehead came to rest on his shoulder. She didn't remember him being close enough for that to happen, but she figured he was being gallant and not letting her fall off the counter.

Then he stepped into her a bit, wrapping an arm around her. _Hugging_ her to him.

"Severus." It escaped. She hadn't meant it to. She'd been so careful.

He held her closer, the other arm finding a place across her shoulders. He was warm and broad and perfect. His coat smelled of warm metal and cauldron fumes with undertones of chocolate.

"Our lives are so fucked up," she said after awhile, and, though she didn't hear him laugh, she felt it in the movement of his chest. He didn't let her go.

\\\

"This has _you _written all over it," Severus said when she saw him in mid March. He was holding the Quibbler and smiling.

The smile changed his face. He was usually severe, his angular face practically made for grouchiness and brooding. When he smiled, he took a decade off and she could see the brightness of him.

"What is it?"

"Don't play dumb." He tossed the Quibbler down on the table next to her elbow and pulled up a chair. She tried not to think about the fact that this was the third time in a month he'd come to visit her when he wasn't hurt. He stopped by just to see her, to talk. "How did you pull this off?"

"Blackmail." She picked up the Quibbler and skimmed the article, unable to keep the smirk off her face.

"You blackmailed Rita Skeeter."

"No, Luna Lovegood."

He took the magazine from her, slowly rolled it into a tube, and swatted her over the head with it. She laughed.

"Yes, yes, fine. I blackmailed Rita Skeeter to get a credible author attached to the piece. And, yes, I know how ridiculous it is that Rita Skeeter is a credible author." She poured him a cup of tea since he was sitting. "And I suppose Umbridge has already made it contraband. They'll be reprinting it tomorrow, you know. The most popular issue ever."

"Can't imagine why," Severus said, deadpan. "The usual issues are chock full of interesting things."

She grinned, drank her tea, and tried to think of something to talk about. Since she'd had her little epiphany, she hadn't been able to talk to him the way she had before. Conversations about articles in Potions journals or half-arguments about the odd bit of theory was all well and good, but she wanted to ask him what he wanted to do with himself after the war and if, maybe, she could do it with him. Forever.

"How are the Occlumency lessons going?" she asked, even though she had a good idea what the answer would be.

Severus rolled his eyes, slouching in his chair a bit as if having his shoulders up by his ears would protect him from an impromptu lesson. "Horribly."

"I probably shouldn't tell you, but they don't get any better." Harry had never told them just what ended the lessons, but she knew that he did something to piss Severus off so badly that he summarily threw him from the room. Not only that, but whatever it was was bad enough that Dumbledore had agreed to let the lessons end.

"That does not surprise me."

"He was always driven by his emotions. Knowing what I do now about Occlumency, it isn't a surprise that he doesn't have the knack for it. Especially not—and no offense—but especially not when he's getting the lessons from you."

"I tried to explain that to the headmaster, actually. They would have been much better received if the lessons came from Dumbledore. He refused."

_Because he's beginning to suspect the connection and he's worried that if Voldemort thinks Harry has special insight into Dumbledore's actions it will only get worse._

"Yes."

"I suggested you teach him, too. Even under Polyjuice or some such. He wouldn't hear of that, either."

"Hm." She didn't know what to say to that. She wouldn't have minded it, actually. It might have worked, not that it would help if Harry truly was a Horcrux. "To my knowledge, Harry did not meet a mysertious new witch during his Occlumency lessons. Mostly he just spent a few hours thinking about how much he disliked you, then returned to the common room to tell _us _how much he disliked you."

"Time well spent, then."

Severus rubbed at his forehead tiredly, and Hermione had a thought. "Do you want to borrow the Time Turner? Would that help? At the very least, you'd be able to get some sleep. I'm not using it much anymore, after all."

He looked at her strangely for a long moment, then blinked and shrugged. "I wouldn't know how to use it."

She reached around the back of her neck and drew the long chain out, over her head. She let the chain drop and simply held up the Time Turner itself so that he could see it, then explained about the rings of it, how she adjusted each and spun the hourglass in the center.

"Fascinating," he said, eyes intent on the little thing.

"Well?" she asked. "Would you like to borrow it? I'd need it back; Dumbledore does have me use it occasionally."

"He does?"

"Not for the long Turns like he used to. Now it's mostly going back to the beginning of the day to conveniently show up at St. Mungo's when an Order member is going to need discreet treatment or observation. Or doubling up on my time so I can attend an Order meeting _and _act as back-up for Lupin in a sketchy part of town."

"He's sent you in after the werewolves?"

Hermione touched his hand before she thought better of it, just briefly, reacting to the panic in his voice. "Just a few times, and nothings come of it. It's never during the full moon, and I'm always Disillusioned. I Silence my shoes and mask my scent. Lupin doesn't even know I'm there."

She'd actually wished she could do the same and follow Severus around more than once, but he went too many places that were layered with wards specifically designed to keep people like her out. Muggle-borns. Those without Dark Marks.

Severus sat back, his grip a touch too tight on his teacup. She wanted to touch him again, offer some sort of comfort. It was… nice. It was nice that he didn't like her going into danger, that he was concerned for her.

\\\

Tea became a regular occurance. It was wonderful and awful. She loved seeing him so often, and him not bleeding. But she hated the tension. He surely didn't feel it, or he would say something. But she felt it. The ache. She _wanted_ him. She had nightmares about the faceless Marcella, who at least had a potion-induced fantasy. She felt like an absolute idiot; this was the last thing that she should be hung up on.

And he came around for tea at least once a week, usually on Thursdays. He'd tell her how atrocious Harry was at Occlumency, how obnoxious Umbridge was in general. Occasionally she'd get stories about other members of staff—Minerva seemed to actually be a dear friend (if she was interpreting the stories right), and he held both Poppy and Pomona in good esteem. He sent her letters twice a week—Saturdays and Mondays, more often than not—in which he told her that her essays were too long and her infatuation with Ronald Weasley was hilarious.

She lived for the letters, the visits. In between, she did her calculations for the Order and she attended meetings. There were regular gatherings to exchange information, though not everybody attended each meeting. (She wasn't sure if that was by design to limit the information each member had, or if it was just a matter of schedules.) She brewed the usual stock of potions for the Order and a few for her own cupboards. She worked on her projects at her office. She read books, tried to think of banal things to write back to Severus.

When Dumbledore left Hogwarts, he stopped over at her flat. He didn't leave a forwarding address, but he paced for a bit and visibly restrained himself from shouting at her for not telling him what was going to happen.

And then came the last Occlumency lesson. Severus arrived directly after it, furious. The windows actually shuddered when he entered the room.

"Quite the week, hm?" she asked, aiming for offhand, just shy of flirtatious. He was magnificent in a temper, at least when it wasn't her he was angry with.

"_Quite the week_," he snarled. "Do you have any idea what Potter just did? Did he _tell _you?"

"No," she said, watching him pace. "He actually seemed embarrassed about it when we pressed him. At first he tried to tell us that you'd decided he had a good enough grasp on Occlumency that he could figure the rest out on his own time, but then Ron caught on that he was still having the dreams. He never told us what exactly took place."

"He thought it would be a good idea to poke his nose into my Pensieve," he said, jaw tight, clipping his words. He stalked towards her. "He saw _you_. I had to Obliviate him."

"Obliviate him? For seeing some random older witch who looks a bit like his friend?"

"_Hermione_." He was so close. She was in an armchair, and he'd leaned down over her, his hands on the arm rests. And she couldn't remember him ever saying her name, not like that.

"Severus?" She could barely breathe. The tension was back. The ache. He was so _close_.

"I put… secrets in the Pensieve. Embarassing moments, defining moments, things I wanted to hide. To keep for myself." He was doing a remarkable job of not quite looking at her while he was dominating her personal space. "He cannot have you." The last was barely a whisper.

_What? What does that mean? _

"Severus?"

He finally met her eyes, and his face was so open, so helpless, she reached out to him. She lost her nerve before her hands reached his chest, so she settled them on his wrists instead.

"You are… I don't have _friends_, Hermione. I don't _get_ to have friends. Nobody can keep secrets." His eyes bored into hers, dark and intense. He wasn't Occluding and neither was she, but for once they remained in their own minds. "You are—precious—to me."

"Severus."

He tried to stand up, to pull away, but she held him in place with her hands on his wrists. It wasn't much of a struggle; he didn't try to pull away when she didn't immediately let him go. He closed his eyes, hung his head.

"Potter can have the sodding fallout. He can have the Marauders. He can have Lily." He opened his eyes, looking at her. Naked. "He can't have you."

"I'm yours," she whispered, since she was lost anyway. He might as well know about it.

She couldn't seem to remember how to breathe, and from the sound of it he was having trouble too. He gaped at her, as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard. She looked away, embarrassed. He'd confessed to being a friend, a close friend. She'd… Well.

He made to move his right hand and she released both his wrists, closing her eyes. This vulnerability in front of him was worse than the jealousy she felt for the faceless Marcella, worse than the jealousy that flared to life whenever he mentioned Lily. She hated to be exposed; she had too many secrets for it.

To her surprise, he didn't leave her to her humiliation. His fingers closed gently around her chin, turning her head back toward him. He held her there until she opened her eyes. His face was close to hers again, eyes in line with hers.

"Do you mean it?"

She blinked, bit her lip. For the flash of a moment, his eyes flicked down to her lips but then they were back on her eyes.

"Yes." She barely had the breath to whisper it. _You are precious to me_, he'd said. _Potter can have Lily. He can't have you_. "Yes, Severus. I'm yours."

"Sod it."

He kissed her. It wasn't a nice, gentle kiss—a first kiss, a beginning. This kiss was passion and discretion-to-the-wind abandon. She grabbed him around the shoulders and held on, helping him when he lifted her out of her chair and held her to him. She put everything she'd been holding back into the kiss, one hand tangling in his hair to keep him close while she clung to him with her other arm around his shoulders.

They broke apart, gasping. He had his hands all over her bum, holding her up. Her legs were wrapped around him.

_Well that escalated quickly._

They clung together, breathing, for a long time. Eventually, though, it was silly for him to be holding her up. She dropped her legs, and he moved his hands to her waist. They stood close, circled in each others' arms.

"I could very easily fall in love with you," she said. She was blushing. "I—"

He put his fingers to her lips. She froze. She wanted to pull him closer, but she didn't dare.

"Hermione, I—"

She kissed his fingertips. She _wanted_ to seduce him, to take the tip of one of his fingers into her mouth and let things play out from there, but she restrained herself. Not that it mattered; from the way his eyes darkened, she could tell the thought had leaked over to him.

His hand shifted, cupping her cheek, pulling her closer. He was tentative this time, lips just brushing hers in a series of feather-light kisses. She leaned into him, hands tracing across his chest to curl in his lapels and pull him closer. She kissed him back, nipping at his lower lip. He groaned; his hand left her face and traveled along her waist, pulling her closer, wrapping around her back.

"This can't happen," he said, his breath hot on her cheek. Despite what he said, he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of her mouth, then rubbed his cheek along hers, burying his face in her hair, resting his lips against the pulse point of her neck. She gasped as his lips and tongue teased, his hands spreading wide against her waist, trailing up and down her sides.

"Right," she said, but it came out a gasp.

He released her abruptly, taking half a step back. He was breathing like a bellows, and she realized she must have had her hands in his hair; it was a mess. Her skin was humming.

"Right," he said, sounding just as breathless as she was.

"Because I can't—_we _can't," she said. "There's too much going on. There's too much at stake. We've worked _too _hard to—we've put too much into— _Dumbledore_ won't let us—"

He cut her off with another kiss.

"You should know that I don't do things by halves."

"I know."

He kissed her again.

"We're fucked," she said, resting her forehead against his. He smiled.

"We're _so _fucked."

\\\

It was by unspoken agreement that they stopped seeing each other. He didn't stop by for tea. She didn't tell him which evenings she'd be in Hogsmeade. They exchanged letters daily.

It was inevitable that Dumbledore would catch them. He would disapprove. He would forbid them from seeing each other, possibly even insist Severus go to Poppy when he was injured (and Umbridge be damned).

He sent her chocolates from Honeyduke's for Easter, but he didn't visit her over the school break. She sent him a cheesy Muggle card and signed it "Your H."

She didn't hear much from him when June rolled around. The letters still arrived daily, but they were shorter. He had fifth years taking O.W.L.s, seventh years taking N.E.W.T.s, career advice with his House, and Umbridge simpering at his heels.

Hermione ignored all the threats from Dumbledore (especially since he was nowhere to be found, anyway), and was waiting at St. Mungo's on the night Minerva was brought in. She was nobody to the Healers on duty—the potioneer on staff was the only one that would know her, and he wasn't in the building; she'd checked—and so she paced the waiting room. Her logical mind told her that Minerva would be fine, but ideas kept cropping up. Like what if she was meant to burst in and give her input? What if she'd always done it and just hadn't known she'd done it?

She was seriously considering forcing her way past the bored wizard in the security uniform when Severus arrived, billowing into the waiting room with his teaching robes loose around him, tossed on over his coat in his haste to leave the castle. She reached for him, meaning to brush against his mind as she always did, but her nerves released themselves on him. He was at her side in an instant, long fingers clasping her elbow almost too tightly.

"Severus," she whispered, and he crushed her to his chest, her head tucking beneath his chin like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"What news?" he asked, his hands clenched against her. She swallowed thickly before speaking.

"None. I'm not a relative. They won't let me through."

"Come."

He released her from his—hug? grip?—but kept his hold on her elbow, drawing her with him past the security guard with a glare. She fell in step with him, trotting along down the corridor while the guard blustered, quietly and ineffectually, behind them.

"Which room?" he asked her under his breath without breaking stride.

"Third on the left."

Two Junior Healers and a Senior Healer looked up when they entered. One of the Junior Healers leapt away from the door at the sight of Severus, and Hermione rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

"Well?" Severus snarled.

"Professor Snape, this is highly irregular," the Senior Healer said, eyeing the Junior Healer who had leapt away. Severus fixed his gaze on the older man, raising an eyebrow. He didn't release Hermione's arm, and she was glad for it; it steadied her.

Minerva was on the bed in hospital-issue pajamas, bony feet on display. She looked so small without her robes, without the sheer force of her radiating from her pores. She was pale and her eyes were smudged purple with exhaustion. The diagnostic that hung over her wasn't one that Hermione preferred, but she knew how to read it. The Head of Gryffindor would be fine given time to recouperate. There was some nerve damage radiating around her left hip, where it looked like at least two Stunners had impacted, but even that would fade with time and attention.

Hermione stumbled away from Severus, dropping into the chair in the corner and clasping her hands around her knees. She stared at the diagnostic, breathing.

"Well?" Severus asked again, this time rounding on her. He looked utterly beside himself; she'd never seen his face so naked with other people in the room. She couldn't speak, so she just nodded.

"She's going to be fine," the Senior Healer said, his tone annoyed.

Severus stumbled back a step, but caught himself, forced himself upright. He rounded on the Healers, sharpening his tongue on them while Hermione regained her composure.

They left together half an hour later. They'd been allowed to sit with Minerva's unconscious form, now covered by a thin blanket, until the Senior Healer had finished his rounds of the ward. It was very early in the morning by then, and Hermione could hardly keep her eyes open. The stress of the day had given way to pure relief, sapping everything out of her.

They walked out, carefully not touching. Hermione wanted to slouch against him, to lace her arm through his, to hold his hand. She wanted to press her face against his chest and wrap her arms around his waist. It was very difficult not to do all those things and more, knowing that he wouldn't mind if she did them.

The Apparition room was nondescript as most Apparition rooms, a plain square space with a few quirky details to make the room unique and memorable, reducing Splinching. She glanced at him, then took his hand and Side-Alonged him to Edinburgh.

They continued to hold hands as they walked down the hall to her door and through. She, at least, pretended that she'd forgotten her fingers were entwined with his. (As if she could forget; she could hardly focus on anything else.)

"Minerva will truly be alright?" he asked, using their attached hands to halt her in the kitchen. He leaned his hip against the nearest counter, bending his arm to draw her closer. He held her hand up between them, his thumb stroking her knuckles in the most delightfully distracting way.

"She'll be back at Hogwarts before the end of term," Hermione said, watching his thumb make its slow trek across her fingers. She would probably tell him anything he wanted to know just so long as he kept touching her. "A little easier to tire, and she'll need to use a cane for awhile, but mostly undamaged."

"I almost cursed Umbridge when she informed the staff what had happened," he said, tone flat enough that she glanced up at his face. It was perplexed, mouth pinched and eyes thoughtful. "She was _giddy_. Or at least more giddy than usual. Aboslutely tickled to be rid of a competing authority figure."

"That doesn't surprise me," Hermione said. He'd stopped rubbing her knuckles, so she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to the back of his hand. It took more will than it should have not to take that last step into him, to wrap her arms around him, to kiss him again. Her bedroom was only a few quick steps away. Her bed wasn't made, but she hardly cared. There (probably) weren't any bras hanging on doorknobs, at least.

"Hermione." She could hear him aching just from the tone of her name on his lips.

"This is so unfair," she murmured, half hoping he wouldn't hear.

"Life isn't fair."

"Please. I don't need empty platitudes."

"It isn't a platitude so much as a statement of fact."

"Would you like some tea?" Because she was British, and he was British, and goddammit but what else could they do?

"I shouldn't stay."

She whimpered, actually whimpered. It was pathetic.

He put a comforting hand on her cheek, and she leaned into it. His lips found hers a breath later, and he kissed her like he was drowning and she was the air he needed.

"And that is why I should really go," he said, but he had a tight hold on her. Their fingers were still clasped together from earlier, and now he had his other hand tangled loosely in her hair. "I love you. And you love me. We're both too invested in this damned war to… allow ourselves—to be able to be distracted. We can't do it. It isn't even about being caught out by Dumbledore. It isn't that he won't approve, even though he _won't_. It's that we've both given up so much already. That we have to keep going, to see it all through. And neither of us is selfish enough to set responsibility aside for our own… happiness."

It would have been a more effective speech if he didn't punctuate every third word or so with a kiss to some bit of her face, ending with a half-chaste kiss to her lips before the last word. And if he hadn't just told her that he loved her.

"Well if that's all," she said weakly, drawing their attached hands close to her breast and wrapping her other hand around his, too. "I think I'll just sit down and wallow in the pathetic drama novel that masquerades as my life."

"_You _do not _wallow_," he informed her, stepping into her so that she was practically leaning against his chest, their hands trapped between them, the hand he had in her hair holding her head against his collarbone.

"Oh, look at us," she said, half-amused but mostly not amused at all. "The spy and the assassin. Deadly. Powerful. Responsible. Bessotted. Mopy."

"_I _do not _mope_."

She laughed, but it was painful. He was so close—he was _in her arms_, holding her in _his _arms—but she couldn't have him.


	12. Chapter Eleven

It was always the end of the school year.

She'd had half a mind to take herself off to some Muggle pub away from everything; she'd go to headquarters in the morning and see what Dumbledore wanted her to do (other than sit still while he picked her brains out with his wand). Instead, she arrived at Grimmauld Place well after when she knew Harry would have made the Floo call.

She dressed in robes, with the beads in her hair and a scarf in her pocket to wrap her hair back with when she needed to. She'd look like Sam Barnes, not Hermione Granger. It was important.

The portrait of Mrs. Black glared at her, but it didn't know she was a Muggle-born so all it did was scowl. Kreacher was nowhere to be seen, and that was a good thing because she probably would have kicked him.

Sirius Black was in the kitchen arguing with Severus. She'd expected to see the Order gathered, ready to fall on the Ministry as she remembered them doing. Instead, Mad-Eye, Tonks, Shacklebolt and Lupin sat at the table looking tense and drinking tea while they listened to the fight.

"Well how can you be sure he's not out in the Forest with his friends? It's a big forest," Black said snidely, arms crossed over his chest.

Severus drew himself up—and he was several inches taller than Black—but noticed her in the doorway before he answered. He turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow. "Well?"

She frowned at him. He, of all people, knew better than to ask her something like that. "He's gone to the Department of Mysteries."

"How would _you _know?" Moody asked, not quite rudely.

"Arithmancy," she said shortly, still glaring at Severus. "Of course, I can't be sure. Maybe somebody should do another sweep of the Forest."

"That'll have to be you, Snape," Moody said, taking her at her word. (That had been the one nice thing about his knowing that she was the dragon; it had created an odd sort of respect.) "Anybody else would have to be let through the wards."

"Very well," Severus said with bad grace. "But Black must _stay here_. Somebody needs to be here to inform Dumbledore when he arrives."

"Fat chance!" Black said, rounding on Severus again, but Severus ignored him. She felt him brush against her mind, and she glared at him.

_You asshole. You _know_ better than to ask me something like that. Go find Dolores fucking Umbridge._

She turned away from him, throwing up her Occlumency shields to keep him out, and focusing on Moody and his plans for the Ministry until she heard Severus Floo away.

"You can't leave me behind. Kreacher can tell Dumbledore what's going on."

Hermione frowned, but she didn't intervene. Kreacher's treachery was already complete.

"Fine," Moody said. "We need all the wands we can get. Now Barnes, what else can your numbers tell us about what to expect?"

"I suspect a handful of students accompanied Harry to the Ministry. His Defense Against the Dark Arts group."

"They call themselves Dumbledore's Army," Black said, smirking fondly. The look made Hermione's heart ache a bit. He and Harry had almost had a good thing, and it was over before it had begun. It _would be_ over before it had begun. It was about to end. Sirius Black would be dead before dawn.

"Right," she said, forcing herself to smile at Black. "Dumbledore's Army. Schoolchidren on a fool rescue mission, facing Death Eaters."

"Thank Merlin Molly Weasley wasn't due at this meeting," Tonks said under her breath. Shacklebolt shared an amused look with her before returning his attention to Moody. The retired Auror gave them an outline of a plan that Hermione was not in the least satisfied with, but she was in too much of a hurry to get to the Ministry to insist on more talk.

"Alright, then," Mad-Eye said at last, giving them all one last look over. He looked, of all things, pleased.

"Let's do this," Black said, pulling his jacket straight as he stood up. He had his wand held tight in his fist, and it didn't take Legilimency to know he was spoiling for the fight.

Hermione secured the scarf around her hair with a charm; it wouldn't do for it to come loose and get in her way. Shacklebolt was looking at her oddly and had been since she'd begun to get ready for the fight, putting her leather wraps around her hands and wrists after she'd put her hair back. She ignored him.

"Move out," Mad-Eye said, lurching to his feet and clomping his way out of the kitchen. For once, Tonks didn't knock over the umbrella stand on the way out.

They lined up along the edge of the road, just inside the limit of the house's wards. She glanced up and down the line, knowing that she was going into a fight with good wands at her back. That didn't do much to relieve the terror that had been clamoring at the back of her mind for days—what if her presence changed something, what if she made a mistake, what if she recognized herself, what if, what if, what if? All her worries stewing, as usual, with the added stress of remembered panic from the first time she'd lived through this fight; it had been her first real duel.

Hermione locked her mind down. She solidified the barriers always in place, compartmentalizing her memories and putting away the ones that would only distract her. She wouldn't think about how scary it had been the first time around, or how broken Harry had been after Black died. And she definitely wouldn't think about how angry she was with Severus.

"Three, two, one—go!" Moody shouted, and they all Apparated to the Atrium. The large space was obscenely bright after the darkness of the street outside headquarters.

For a moment, the only sound was the steady rush of water from the golden fountain.

"_Hominum Revelio_," Shacklebolt muttered, and nine dots of light shivered in front of him for only a second before he released the spell in order to react to the attack. Two Death Eaters were upon them, rushing from opposite sides. One had been behind the statue; the other had burst out of the shadows in one of the empty Floo grates.

The duels were quick. Shacklebolt Stunned one after a brief back-and-forth, and Moody had blasted the other back against the wall hard enough to knock him out. Tonks moved forward and secured the Death Eaters, tying them up and taking their wands. Hermione and Lupin trotted forward, wands out and Hermione with her knife, approaching the security desk where the last dot of light from Shacklebolt's spell had indicated a person.

It turned out to be the night guard. He was on death's doorstep. His eyes went wide when he saw Hermione and Lupin, and one hand flailed weakly for a wand that wasn't there, and then he died. Lupin closed the wizards's eyes, looking mournful.

"We keep moving," Moody said, reaching the bank of elevators first.

They split up, going down in pairs of two—Black and Moody, Lupin and Tonks, and Hermione with Shacklebolt.

"Muggles have staircases for this sort of thing, you know," Hermione said for the sake of something to say in the tense silence of the elevator car. "For sneaking downstairs. And for exercise. And in case of fire."

"That's nice," Shacklebolt said, sounding incredibly sincere. She couldn't tell if he was mocking her or not, but then it didn't matter because the grilles slid open and a cool female voice said, "Department of Mysteries," and it was chaos.

The torchlight flickered, the flames dancing from the arrival of the elevators as well as the displaced air from spells. There was only one Death Eater in the corridor, but he had the advantage. Nobody in the elevators could see him properly because whenever they tried he shot curses at them.

The advantage of Fiendfyre was that the caster didn't need to be able to see the target if they had enough control. Hermione had the control.

"Back," she told Shacklebolt, moving him out of the way and bracing her foot against the side of the grille (the elevator kept trying to close up and return to the Atrium level, announcing that they'd arrived at the Department of Mysteries each time the grilles slid open fully again; it was quite obnoxious, not to mention the grilles kept getting in the way).

"What are you—"

She'd been thinking of the illustration in her father's copy of _The Hobbit_, a line drawing of the dragon Smaug. When she was little, before she'd seen a real dragon, she'd thought it was cute. A bit lizard-like, a bit snake-like. Spikes along its back, a curl of smoke from its nostrils. That was the dragon she conjured of Fiendfyre, the length of her arm with a narrow head and a curling, almost fish-like quality to its movement. Shacklebolt went absolutely still the moment it joined them in the elevator.

Hermione flicked her wand, and the Fiendfyre roared out of the elevator, taking the ungodly heat of it away. The Death Eater in the hall screamed, then fell silent. She knew that the dragon had found him, had shot through his chest like a missile and left a fist-sized hole in his body. She could smell the charred flesh.

She left the elevator car and had to walk past the two other doors before she saw the Death Eater. The Fiendfyre dragon was hovering above the Death Eater's face, seeming to watch as the wizard's eyeballs liquefied from the heat and oozed down his temples.

Disgusted, Hermione squashed the Fiendfyre out of existence by force of will. It was easier to trick the cursed fire out, let it have its flourish and drama; she wasn't in the mood.

"Clear," Hermione said, because that was what they said on the cop shows her parents watched when the threats had all been rendered inert.

"Bloody hell," Tonks muttered at the sight of the body.

"He's dead," Lupin observed, sounding shocked. Hermione raised an eyebrow, knowing full well she was channeling Severus. She was uncomfortably aware that she didn't usually operate with an audience, and that only three people from the Order had actually known exactly what she did for Dumbledore. Until now.

"We can talk about morality and my poor, fractured soul after we retrieve _Dumbledore's Army_," she said, making the group she'd help found sound like a joke. She went down the corridor to the plain black door and held it open, mockingly formal, for the others.

Moody stumped through the door, mind on the task at hand. Tonks gave her a wary look. Shacklebolt and Lupin both looked worried, obviously forcing themselves to think of their priorities. Black's eyes roved up her figure as he passed, strutting cockily, and she raised an annoyed eyebrow but didn't say anything.

_We really don't have time for this_.

The room beyond was the round room of doors, all black. The ceiling and floor, black. The light was blue.

When she'd passed through with Dumbledore's Army, they hadn't known what the room was or how it worked. Moody seemed to have some experience with the Department of Mysteries. Instead of stumbling through blind and opening a door at random, being disoriented by the spinning walls and lights, he drew a zigzag with the tip of his wand and then jabbed the tip at a door.

All the doors flew open, and Hermione couldn't see what was beyond any of them.

"Damned 'mysteries,'" Mad-Eye said sulkily. "Split up. Find the children. Get Potter out."

They didn't need telling twice. She went through the nearest doorway, and into the Brain Room.

"No," somebody said weakly. The voice was horribly familiar. "No, I don't like it."

She almost tripped over her own unconscious body, and stared down in horror. She was so _young_. She didn't think of herself as old, but compared to this little teenaged thing on the floor she certainly was. The girl had mad frizzy hair everywhere, and a pimple on her chin.

The girl also had blood soaked through the front of her shirt. Hermione shuddered, her hand reflexively going to the line of the scar. She felt like she might throw up.

Hermione forced the fear and the panic away, dismissed the voice in her head that sounded remarkably like Dumbledore that told her she could not interfere with her own self, and knelt beside her younger form. She cast her usual diagnostic, though she knew what she'd find.

There was blood everywhere, and it was worse when Hermione tore open the shirt. The clothing had been holding the skin in place, more or less, and opening it for a look at the wound had let the wound itself open.

"Bugger," she said, then almost laughed at her own lack of creativity in swearing. (To be fair, though, her attention was mostly elsewhere.)

Hermione pulled her satchel out and Summoned her charmed thread from the depths. She knew it wouldn't do any good in the long run, but hopefully it would see her through the short term, possibly hold her innards in until they could get her to St. Mungo's. And then there would be just shy of a dozen potions to take while healing and a terrifying achiness whenever she moved for months, and she'd be lying to her parents about its cause in no time.

"Please, God, let this work."

The paradox, of course, was that it had to work or she wouldn't be alive to do it in the first place.

"Bugger," she said again.

She smeared the paste along her chest, wiping her hands on her robe when she finished—her wand kept slipping in her grip from the blood that coated her fingers after she'd put the stitches in. Smoky steam billowed up from the wound, and it was closed but barely. The two sides of the wound were barely together; in fact, they pulled apart in a few different places as she watched. Blood oozed ominously.

"Swallow," she urged, holding a Blood Replenishing Potion to her own lips, and her teenaged self swallowed, choked, then managed to swallow again.

"No. Stop it," Ron moaned from the other end of the room, and she remembered that he'd been attacked by a brain with feelers all over it. Or something. The story had been patchy coming from the boys, both of them running on adrenalin and Ron Confunded at the time.

"Fuckall," she muttered, pulling out a long length of bandaging and forcing her teenaged self into a sitting position with a spell. She wrapped the bandages tight around, holding the wound together and covering her own teenaged decency. It would have to do. She wouldn't bleed out, at least. And the wound would take more than enchanted thread to get it closed—if she remembered correctly, and she did, there had been a team of four or five Healers working on her, combining spells and potions, to put her together again.

When Hermione was sure she wasn't leaving herself to die, she slung her satchel back over her shoulder and went to find Ron.

He was on the floor, eyes closed while he muttered. He held the remains of the brain that he'd Summoned, and its tentacles were still wrapped around his arms and chest. The tentacles pulsed and squeezed, the spasms of a dying nervous system.

"Shit," Hermione said under her breath. "Ron!"

Her diagnostic spell confirmed that he'd been Confunded, and that was easy enough to take care of. But that left the issue of the brain—she had no idea what its purpose was or how it worked, but it was causing him considerable pain and distress even after the main of it had been destroyed by spells and Ron's desperate hands.

Carefully, using her knife instead of her wand when spells proved unhelpful, she separated the feelers from the brain and set about unwrapping them from his flesh. They'd dug in quite deep in places. He'd have bruises around his torso and could get Bruise Paste for them later, but she used charms to heal the spiraling cuts around his wrists and arms where the tentacles had been against bare flesh and had drawn blood. Quite a lot of blood, actually, for such slim cuts.

_Renervate_.

The spell didn't work, or it did but Ron still wasn't responding right. She recast her diagnostic, but he was physically fine.

_Legilimens_.

Ron's mind was a foreign swirl of happy childhood memories and cunning chess strategy. She could feel the structure to it, and she could feel that there was some outside influence stirring all that structure up like a hurricane. Memories that certainly weren't his—because he had definitely never been in an Aztec temple, nor had he paced at the front of a lecture hall—collided with memories that were, one bowling the other over.

Over the lot, Hermione could hear Ron's confused swearing as his conscious mind tried to sort out what the bloody hell was going on.

She wished she could knock him out and set his brain right, but Legilimency required a conscious subject. Gently, carefully, she set to work. She kept half an ear out for approaching enemies, but Ron was minutes from madness and, if she remembered the story correctly, the Death Eaters would be busy in the Death Chamber by now.

Slowly, his mind began to stop spinning. She siphoned off the foreign memories into conjured vials, not sure what to do with them or if they'd be of any use. Her guess was that the brains were donated, minds given over to research.

_A think tank, of a sort_, she mused, easing Ron's childhood back into its usual crevice of gray matter and resisting the urge to soften his arachnophobia with a mental wall to compartmentalize it away. That would be invasive and wrong.

The brains were both fascinating and horrible, and she was eager to tell Severus about them until she remembered that she was mad at him.

"H'mione," Ron said when she withdrew from his mind. He scrunched up his face at her. "Where's your hair gone?"

And he went limp. Hermione almost laughed. Dear old Ron.

"What've you done to him?" Ginny asked. Hermione looked up to see the younger girl pointing a wand at her, propped up against the leg of a table. She looked pale, very pale.

"He's alright, Ginny. He'll be fine." She held her hands up, turning her wrist so that Ginny would be able to see her wand safely away in its sheath. "Are you hurt?"

Ginny held out for only a few seconds before she dropped her wand to the floor and gingerly used her hands to move her leg around in front of her. She nodded in answer to Hermoine's question.

"Let's have a look at you," she said in her best Healer voice. Ginny didn't appear soothed by the tone, and she went stiff when Hermione drew her wand to cast the diagnostic. "It's a clean break. It'll just take a moment—brace yourself."

Ginny yelped when the break reformed at a tap of Hermione's wand, but she relaxed a moment later. She moved the ankle around, pulling up her pant leg to have a look. It was a bit swollen.

"Er, thank you."

"You'll be fine. Keep your weight off it as much as you can for now, and have Madam Pomfrey give you a proper exam when you get back to school." Hermione stood, tugging her robes into place habitually and reflecting that she'd spent much too long on her knees. "Stay with your brother. He's going to be unconscious for awhile; he needs guarding."

"Okay."

Hermione went past the youngest two Weasleys, leaving a charm on them to alert her if they were attacked. Neither of them were in any shape to keep fighting.

The door Hermione had entered through banged open, and Hermione was on her feet in an instant. She put herself between the Weasleys and the intruder, pointed her wand at him and gripped her knife tight in the fist hidden behind her thigh. Then she realized it was Dumbledore—tall and terrifying. He wasn't twinkling, and he wasn't wearing a hat with moons and stars on it. This was the wizard who had sent her back and back and back again, the wizard Voldemort feared.

Dumbledore glanced around the room, saw the blood down the front of her robes and the Weasley children so pale behind her. He also noted her younger self sprawled not far from where he stood, unconscious and with blood beginning to seep through the bandages around her chest.

She felt his mental probe shoot against her Occlumency shields like a fucking nuclear bomb, and she dashed his mind away from hers with such force that it made her feel like she'd just sneezed. Dumbledore strode towards her, glaring, his mind pressing against hers.

"Harry is in there," she said, jerking her chin toward the door behind her. She looked at his nose instead of his eyes. "The Death Chamber." Dumbledore's glare turned from her to the door behind her. "He needs you."

He shot her one last look, the sort that promised that they would have words later, and he strode through the door.

"Your nose is bleeding," Ginny said, startling Hermione. She just nodded, though; a nosebleed wasn't surprising after an encounter with the headmaster these days.

"Keep these two from further damage," she said, knowing her voice sounded dead and flat. She wiped her sleeve across her nose, fixed her grip on knife and wand, and followed Dumbledore into the Death Chamber.

"HE—IS—NOT—DEAD!" Harry roared, and Hermione wondered if there was some sort of ward between the rooms to keep sound from passing through. The Brain Room was dead quiet; the Death Chamber was reverberating with the sizzle of spells in the air, the blast of impact, the shouts and cries of the duelers, and Harry Potter losing his godfather. "SIRIUS!"

Hermione glanced down at the dais and saw Lupin physically wrestling Harry away from the veil, dragging him away from the dais.

The Death Eaters were panicking from Dumbledore's arrival. The headmaster had most of them grouped in the middle of the room, immobilized by invisible ropes. Mad-Eye was crouched over Tonks, whispering a counter-curse. Shacklebolt was dueling Bellatrix Lestrange. Then, with a bang, Shacklebolt was down and Lestrange made a run for it.

"Harry—no!" Lupin cried, but Harry had already ripped his arm from the werewolf's grip.

"SHE KILLED SIRIUS!" bellowed Harry. "SHE KILLED HIM—I'LL KILL HER!"

And he was gone.

"Fudge is on his way. Get everybody out and see to the wounded," Dumbledore said, addressing Lupin. Then he turned to her. "Make sure they don't remember who was here, then leave them for the Aurors."

'Them' was the Death Eaters immobilized by his spell. They cussed at him and struggled wildly, but it had no effect.

"Hermione Granger is through there," Hermione said, indicating the door to the Brain Room. "She needs St. Mungo's immediately. I've done all I can for her, and she's still bleeding."

Her fingers were twitching to rub at her scar, but she forced her hands to put her knife away instead. Lupin nodded and went through the door she'd indicated.

"What happened to Tonks?" Hermione asked Mad-Eye, making her way over to Shacklebolt. He was just Stunned, luckily.

"She'll be fine," Moody said. As if to prove it, Tonks tried to sit up and then moaned belligerently when he pushed her back down. "Keep flat while I finish."

"Neville," Hermione said, looking him over where he sat on one of the lower tiers of the amphitheater. "Are you hurt?"

His nose was obvious and she fixed that before he spoke. "I'm fine," he said, gingerly feeling his nose. She noted that he had her wand in his hand, that his knuckles were white from holding it so tightly.

Hermione turned to the Death Eaters. They looked back at her warily, a few of them turning the taunts they'd had for Dumbledore on her. One by one, she looked them in the eye and distorted their memories. It was a sort of softened _Obliviate_. When she was done, they'd be able to remember their actions, the planning and preparation and attack, but not the identity of the people they'd faced. They'd suspect, of course. And it was impossible (not to mention unnecessary) to remove Dumbledore from their minds, or Harry. She left enough for the Death Eaters to incriminate themselves, and removed enough not to incriminate anybody else. (The Order of the Phoenix was, after all, a vigilante group.)

"We need to get moving," Shacklebolt said. "Where are the rest of the children?"

"Let us get them. You need to go home so that you'll be there when they call you in," Moody instructed, and Shacklebolt nodded briskly. He created himself a Portkey and was gone in a blink. "You too," Moody said, hauling Tonks to her feet. She clutched at him dizzily a moment, then went the same way Shacklebolt had.

Hermione Confunded and Stupefied each of the Death Eaters after she'd modified their memories. The Healers would think the Confundus Charm had been too strong and blurred their memories, which, in turn, covered her tracks because the only reason this sort of magic wasn't classified as Dark was because mind magic (the manipulative variety) wasn't commonly practiced.

"Now," Moody said, limping his way over to Neville. Neville looked properly terrified, surely remembering the last year when the imposter Moody had been the Defense teacher. "How many of you were there?"

"Er," Neville said, glancing at Hermione and then speaking to his shoes. "Me. Luna, Ginny. Harry, Ron and Hermione."

"Harry's with Dumbledore," Hermione said. "Hermione's with Lupin. The Weasleys are in the Brain Room. Where's Luna, Neville?"

"She should be in the Brain Room, too. They Stunned her."

Moody hauled Neville to his feet none too gently, and they made their way up the stone tiers and out of the Death Chamber. Hermione was glad to leave the whispering veil behind.

"Where's Harry?" Ginny asked immediately. "Professor Lupin didn't tell me anything. What's happened?"

Neville went over to Ginny, explaining what she'd missed in an intense whisper. Hermione checked on Ron while Moody located Luna by one of the doors.

There was a pool of blood across the room, where her teenaged self had been the last time she was in the room. Hermione tried not to think about it.

"Take 'em to Hogwarts," Moody said, frowning. "Can't go back to headquarters with Black dead."

It would be futile to protest—she had no way to explain that Black had set everything up to pass to Harry, therefore keeping the secrets within the Order. Hogwarts sounded like a good idea, anyway. Plenty of wards, and a proper hospital wing.

Hopefully, Severus would still be out combing the Forbidden Forest for Umbridge and she wouldn't have to deal with him. She wasn't mad anymore, but he probably would be by now.

Moody left her to sort out Dumbledore's Army, taking himself away to clear out headquarters.

She used an illegal Portkey of her own to bring her friends back to Hogwarts. They arrived at the gates, her with her arms around Ron since he was still unconscious.

"Now we walk," she said, using her wand to levitate Ron in front of them. She kept them moving as quickly as she could, urging Neville to help Ginny along with her tender ankle. They were all going into shock, stumbling along after her stunned and silent. Luna was even more spacy than she usually was, and Ginny was too quiet.

"Poppy!" she bellowed when they finally made it. She felt like a clever thing to have in a magic castle would be a magic shortcut to the hospital wing. "Poppy, come help!"

The mediwitch appeared, yanking on the tie of her dressing gown, her hair braided for bed.

"What's happened?"

"I think I'll let the headmaster explain," she said, putting Ron down on a bed and tucking him in. "No lasting damage to any of them, I don't think. I'd be obliged if you'd double-check, though. I'm not at my best."

Poppy gaped at her for a moment, taking in the smears of blood, then nodded and Summoned one of her many aprons.

There wasn't much fuss when Poppy insisted the students all stay the night in the hospital wing. Neville tried to refuse the sleeping draught she plied on them all, but a frown and a fist on her hip was all it took.

Hermione felt herself beginning to shake about the time Neville dropped off into sleep. She'd sat on the foot of a bed and had her head in her hands when she was startled upright by the glow of a spell. Poppy had cast a diagnostic on her.

"I'm fine."

"You're covered in blood."

"Not my blood," she said, but then she had to laugh because it _was _her blood, just from a long time ago. And not so long ago at all.

_I hate time travel. I hate it _so _much_.

"What happened tonight? You said the headmaster was returning?"

"I—" Hermione started, but then stopped herself because she had drawn a complete blank. She couldn't think of a single worthwhile excuse. She briefly contemplated faking a fainting spell (not an easy thing to do, considering she was trying to fool a Healer), but was saved the trouble by Dumbledore's arrival, Harry on his heels.

"Madam Pomfrey, would you be so kind as to put Harry up for the night? I believe he'll want to be close to his friends."

"Where's Hermione?" Harry asked, looking from face to face. Hermione carefully kept her profile to him, tipping her face down so that she'd be mostly in shadow.

"Miss Granger was taken to St. Mungo's for the night. I'm sure we'll have her with us again soon."

"Come along, Mr. Potter. There's a dear," Poppy said, guiding him to a bed and handing him a pair of hospital pajamas.

"Miss Barnes, I believe you and I should have a talk. And then, I think, Poppy? You'll have questions I'm sure."

"Most definitely, Headmaster," Poppy said, but she was smirking.

Hermione followed Dumbledore to his office with heavy feet. She was too tired for another interrogation and she certainly didn't feel up to more shouting. She had half a mind to just lay the next year bare in front of Dumbledore—the attacks, his hand, everything.

"I owe you an apology," he said, sitting not behind his desk like he usually did but in one of the cozy chairs by the fireplace. (It was never too warm in the blustery old castle for a fire, and there was a cheerful one dancing in his grate.)

She blinked at him, and sat in the armchair across from his when he waved her down into it.

"This attack tonight, losing Sirius." He sighed. He looked very old, and for once not like he was putting on the airs of being an old man but as though he could feel every day of his life in his very bones. "It's already worse than I thought it would be, since we have Harry this time. And it must get worse, since this didn't prompt me to send you back. Something else did."

"Yes. Something else will."

If she wasn't so tired, she'd have a go at him for that about Harry. 'Since we have Harry.' _Harry is a boy! He's not a weapon, and so help me if you try to _make_ him into a weapon, I will move to Thailand and never speak to you again. And I'll take Harry with me. Fuck you._

"I'm not going to press you. You can stop looking so wary."

_This isn't wary. This is angry. And tired._

"I asked you up here because I want you to stay at the school until the end of term. Somebody needs to watch over Harry, and it can't be me right now. He's too angry with me."

_And with good reason_, she thought petulantly, but found herself nodding. Harry truly had been particularly angry since the end of fourth year; she'd chalked most of it up to hormones, and then he'd been devastated when he lost Sirius. Most of the anger was directed at Umbridge or Severus, then Dumbledore, occasionally at the Slytherin Quidditch team.

"Do you want me to Disillusion myself and patrol the halls?"

"No, no. I want you close to Harry as often as possible. This is a particularly dangerous time—Voldemort's return will be public knowledge by the end of the week. There are many children of Death Eaters in this school; if any of them have aspirations for the Mark, or feel slighted on their parents' behalf, now would be the time that they strike."

Hermione thought he was being a bit paranoid, but, really, it was about time. He'd been throwing Harry into danger since he'd arrived at Hogwarts.

"What is it you want me to do, exactly?"

"Polyjuice. I'd like you to take Polyjuice made from the hair of your younger self. While she recuperates in St. Mungo's, you will be here with your friends. I'm sure you've missed them, after all, and they need your protection."

* * *

Severus had found Dolores Umbridge twenty minutes after he'd entered the forest. He'd spent most of those twenty minutes seething.

"_Maybe somebody should do another sweep of the forest_," he'd muttered under his breath. He'd been furious.

She'd known what was happening, known what was _going_ to happen. Hell, she'd shown up at headquarters even though Dumbledore had given her so many nosebleeds over not giving anything away.

And Dumbledore hadn't even been there. She could have given them a proper warning for once.

His gradual buildup to a towering fury had been cut short by his discovery of Umbridge, prisoner of the centaurs. There had been bows pointed at him, and it had been _strongly suggested_ that he find someplace else to be. If he'd liked Umbridge even a little, he would have put at least a token effort into her retrieval. Unfortunately for her, she was one of a handful of people he truly did hate. He'd left her to reap what she'd sown.

He'd seriously considered going to Hermione's flat because, oh, did he have words for her. But no. Somebody from the Order would be dead before daybreak, and Dumbledore would surely need him for something or other.

Severus forced himself to sleep. He took just enough potion to knock him out for three hours, sleeping until sunrise. He woke with his Mark burning more insistently with each breath.

\\\

The Dark Lord had plundered his mind until he was bleeding from his nose and his ears. He'd been looking for any inkling of Harry Potter's plan, anything about what had happened following the attack. All Severus had had to show was his wasted time looking for Umbridge, and his quick retreat when he'd discovered her with the centaurs. (His brief meeting with Dumbledore before he'd answered the Summons, when he'd told Dumbledore where to find the toad and been informed that it was Black that had died, had to be held back.)

The Dark Lord had been disgusted that Severus hadn't had the information he needed. He'd been disappointed in his spy, just as he'd been disappointed in Lucius.

The Dark Lord had used a toe almost gently jabbed into his shoulder to push Severus to the floor and away from him. He'd gone on to other business, leaving his spy to crawl away to the Apparation room, dignity entirely forgotten.

He'd gone to Hermione's flat. He hadn't wanted to go back to the castle, and he certainly hadn't wanted to stay.

He didn't remember much besides the calm touch of her mind against his, a gentle caress against bruised and battered Occlumency shields. He wasn't sure if he'd wept or not, but he'd wanted to.

It wasn't until later, when she'd wiped the blood away and given him a potion for the pain, that he remembered he was supposed to be mad at her. Or she was mad at him. He couldn't remember.

"It has been a very long day," Hermione said, sitting on the floor next to him.

His head ached. It was better than it had been, but it still hurt. It felt like a tension headache. Actually, it could be a tension headache. The potion might have taken off the raw edge from the forceful Legilimency and simply left the headache simmering underneath. He was lucky like that.

Hermione pushed herself off the floor with a groan, and he smirked. He liked the little reminders that she was almost as old as he was. He hated them too, though—his best tactic in the past months had been constantly reminding himself that she was a student. Hell, half the letters he'd written her had focused on her younger self, all the obnoxious things she did. Unfortunately, it just sort of fell away when he was with her. This woman next to him was not a teenaged girl.

He stood up, intending to hug her or kiss her or something. But…

_We can't do this. We know better. _

_We're so fucked._

She nudged his elbow with hers. It was a casual, friendly, familiar gesture, and he liked it. It was almost as nice as the way she brushed his Occlumency shields with her mind as a greeting when she walked into a room. Not nearly as nice as kissing her was, he knew, but they had gone almost a whole week now…

"Come on, then," Hermione said in her best impression of a busybody Healer, interrupting his thoughts again. "You need to lie down and sleep. It will help."

He didn't argue. She led him out of the kitchen into the living room. With a flick of her wrist, the sofa was longer and wider, not quite a proper bed but long enough that he wouldn't have his feet hanging off uncomfortably or anything. She removed his teaching robes and his frock coat, laying them out on the coffee table, then gently pushed him down onto the expanded sofa. It was surprisingly comfortable…

He was already beginning to drift off to sleep when she pulled a blanket out of the chest in the corner and laid it across him. The wool smelled of cedar, probably from the chest. It was pleasant. Not quite as pleasant as the kiss she put on his forehead before she left him to fall asleep, but still quite pleasant.

Severus dreamed he was in a bathtub. It was a large old thing, all warm white ceramic and elaborate feet. The water was the temperature of blood, and frothy with sweet-smelling bubbles. He couldn't identify the exact scent of it, which only served to confirm that it was a dream; he had a very acute, honed sense of smell after so many years of potion-making.

He was reclined in the tub, legs stretched out along the sides to make room for the woman sitting between them. There was enough water that she was almost floating there in his lap, warm and soft. Her skin was wet, and so was his, and that was very nice. It was Hermione, so there was curly hair everywhere, but she had her head resting on his shoulder to one side, so there was no hair up his nose at least.

They were very naked, and very relaxed. Her fingers were trailing wet lines up and down his arms, which were around her. She was hugely pregnant, big round belly protruding from the water in front of them. His hands were on that belly, gently touching, feeling the baby inside kick at him. They were so comfortable together, so very, very relaxed.

There was no Dark Mark on his arm, just pale skin. She had no scars. They were just two people in a tub, enjoying the pregnancy they had created together. A quiet, lingering moment between lovers.

He woke feeling utterly relaxed, as he had been in the tub in his dream, but it didn't last long. His morning wood was particularly forceful, pressing out against the flies of his trousers. He groaned and rolled off the couch, stumbling for the bathroom and a cold shower.

The perfunctory morning routine should have taken his thoughts to more mundane places, but they didn't. He washed his hair and cast cleansing charms on yesterday's clothes, thinking about secrets.

Severus had many secrets, and he kept them all close to the vest. His most embarrassing secret, his most cliché secret, was one that had been cropping up since he'd met Lily Evans as a child: He wanted to be loved. That was it. The big, bad man had a very soft place in his heart. The monster just wanted to be wanted.

It had disgusted him for a long time. He'd fallen head over heels for Lily when they were young, and that love had lasted much longer than it should have, weighted to his heart by guilt. She'd been dead and gone, her son living with some pathetic excuses for human beings, by the time he'd begun to hurt less from her loss. The love of her had been the reason he'd joined the Order, his reason for living for a long time.

These days, it wasn't about Lily, or revenge, or justice. He'd been fighting on principle for a long time. His subconscious seemed to be ready to get back to the game of torturing him with love, though, if that dream was anything to go by. (And all his resistance be damned.)

Dumbledore believed that Severus held some deep, lingering affection for Lily Potter, but that wasn't the case. There had been others since she'd died, short-lived things, flights of fancy. Sometimes it had been a smile or a kindness that drew his eye. Or, admittedly, sometimes it was a breast or the curve of a leg. He was a man and he was young, especially by Wizarding standards. He tried not to let it affect his life; he could never settle down with any of them anyway, not during a war.

But this woman… This woman was in it just as deep as he was, and that was saying something.

She was beautiful and brilliant and she wasn't absolutely repulsed by him or his past. She was kind and gentle. She could be softness and sunshine, and move through the shadows just as easily as he could. Better, probably, because nobody would expect it of her. She was hard without being brittle. She'd been through the wringer, and the core that had come out was amazing.

_Bollocks. You really have gone and fallen in love_, he told himself, rolling his eyes. There was nothing for it, though. He didn't do anything by halves.

* * *

Two days after the Department of Mysteries, Severus burst back into her flat. He'd been out of it when he arrived the first time, and distracted when he left. This time, he was furious.

"What's happened?" she asked, jumping to her feet. He turned and stalked over to her, glaring down at her. She looked up at him, confused. "Severus? What's happened?"

"You said it wasn't my fault!"

"What?"

"Your first bloody scar from the war!" He reached for her collar but thought better of it, dashing his finger along the line of her scar (more or less; he'd never actually seen it) from Dolohov.

"You didn't cast the curse—"

"I _INVENTED_ THAT CURSE!"

She filed that away for later. "You didn't _cast_ it, though, Severus."

"I've just seen you in the hospital. Blood everywhere. It's been _days_ and they hadn't… They didn't know the counter-curse. They did it _wrong_." She was almost offended for a moment, but he was right about that. She hadn't known the counter-curse.

_Well, you did say it yourself: You don't do things by halves. When you make a slice-them-open curse, it sure slices._

He turned away from her and began to pace, shoving his hands through his hair again and again. She watched him, absentmindedly rubbing at the old scar. "I could have fixed you. I could have healed you without a scar."

"It's just a scar, Severus."

"IT'S NOT!"

"Then what is it?" She sat back down, crossed her arms and legs, and glared at him.

"You should have told me," he said, continuing to pace. He was like a tiger in a zoo, pacing along the bars in the horribly frustrated way of a captured predator. "I could have gone to St. Mungo's and fixed it. You didn't have to—How could you just _not say anything_? You let me sleep on your bloody couch! You let me have a lie-in and a nice, long shower! _You should have sent me to St. Mungo's straight off_."

She considered slapping him. Or maybe hexing him. He needed to snap out of it.

"This was the way it always happened, Severus," she said, trying to sound soothing. She wasn't sure it worked—he stopped talking and looked at her, but he kept walking. Back and forth, back and forth across the small room.

"We could have changed it. We _should_ have changed it."

"No, we shouldn't have," she said, insistent. "_This_ is what we've been talking about the whole time. Better the devil you know."

"_What_ could it have changed? Tell me that. What could my going and providing the proper counter-curse have _possibly_ changed to the overall outcome of this awful—"

"Anything! Everything! _We don't know_, and that's the point!" She was on her feet again. He stopped pacing to stand in front of her and glare down at her. "It might not have changed anything. It might just have been a smaller scar, or no scar, for me. Or it might have aroused suspicion—why is the Head of Slytherin paying special attention to some Gryffindor fifth year? How does he even know that counter-curse? Questions. Repercussions.

"Severus, _I'm fine_. I have much worse scars than this one. It wasn't your fault; _you _didn't cast the curse. And besides, you don't have to protect me."

He took two steps and he was in her face. Not looking down his nose at her, not intimidating her, but standing so close that she remembered how nice it was to kiss him even through her haze of anger. They'd been so careful with each other. She'd wanted nothing better than to tuck him in bed next to her the other night, but she'd put him on the couch. And she hadn't kissed him goodnight. And he hadn't kissed her before he left the next morning.

Instead of looking down his nose at her, he was staring into her eyes intently. His hands were on her upper arms, holding her almost painfully tight. She had a feeling he didn't realize he was even touching her.

"Is it so bad that I want you safe and whole?"

"I _am_ safe and whole."

She thought he might kiss her, and she was fairly sure she was going to let him, but instead he turned and left. The door slammed behind him.

\\\

The strangest part about pretending to be her teenaged self was how easy it was. A large part of that was because she was supposed to be bedridden recovering from Dolohov's curse, and the rest was because her friends were all a little bit punch-drunk from their experience at the Ministry.

Ron was still in the hospital wing with her, but Harry was there constantly. Ginny, Neville and Luna were there almost as much.

Hermione spent most of her time reading, listening to her friends, trying to remember what it was like to be part of them. One of Dumbledore's Army.

The only problem was that Harry hadn't been hurt enough to keep him in the hospital wing. He visited, and Hermione dropped hints that he needed to be extra careful, but the majority of the day he was off on his own. She didn't know where he went. He was mourning Sirius, that much was clear. He told them he was visiting Hagrid, but she suspected he was spending the time alone.

Meanwhile, she and Severus weren't exactly talking. He knew she was masquerading as her younger self in the hospital wing, but there was no reason for him to visit her (especially not with Ron so close at hand). She Turned back each evening, slipping away to Edinburgh to go to work at the apothecary and attend Order meetings, but Severus hadn't come to see her since he'd marched out and slammed the door behind him.

She wondered if they'd broken up.

\\\

Three days before the end of term, Ron was released from the hospital wing, so she went too. She tried to bring up Black, but Ron shushed her almost every time and Harry let him.

There hadn't been a funeral since there was no body and he was a wanted man anyway.

Hermione, who hadn't been particularly close to Black either time around and who had deliberately avoided him since she'd known the exact place and time of his death, felt oddly adrift.

She'd seen Severus in the halls twice. The first time, he'd swept by as if she wasn't even there, and she'd let him go. She'd decided to be angry with him if that was how he was going to be. The second time, she hadn't been able to stop herself from pressing a worried little mental question mark against his mind, and he'd stopped walking to stare at her.

"What's up with him?" Ron had asked after they were out of earshot. She'd just shrugged—she couldn't tell if it was a furious stare or a surprised stare or something else entirely.

The problem was that she was in love with him. Absolutely. Irrevocably. And he'd told her that he loved her. And he'd slammed the door on his way out and she hadn't seen him properly since.

He stood behind her chair at Order meetings, a dark presence glaring people down on her behalf. She'd witnessed moments of vulnerability when healing him, and that made him human, approachable. And desirability had never been in question: the thought had been set second year when he'd flicked his wand and put Gilderoy Lockhart on his ass. That easy grace, the jawline, the eyes, the voice. The breadth of his shoulders.

They couldn't even fight properly. They were constantly engaging in confrontations. Minerva called them arguments, but only because she didn't actually listen to what was being said. Most of the time, they agreed with the points the other made, but they couldn't seem to keep the heat out of their voices, couldn't stop the fist-clenching or getting in each other's faces when they made the same point. It was stupid.

She'd had her fair share of boyfriends when she'd been Turning, but none of them had been serious; she'd always been mentally and emotionally prepared for the next Turn. A simple conversation with Severus Snape, especially one that took place when one or both of them weren't bleeding, and she was wondering if he liked kids, if he wanted his own. If he'd want her to have them.

Stupid. Impossible.

And apparently they _could_ fight properly. This had to be a fight. They couldn't be broken up—they'd never really been together.

\\\

Harry kept wandering off. She'd forgotten that he did that.

She was supposed to be watching him, and she was doing her level best to spend every moment of the day with him, but he still managed to give her the slip. Finally, though, they were on the Hogwarts Express and he didn't have a whole castle to wander off and get lost in. Just a whole train.

For instance, the boys had gone off to the loo and returned talking about an incident with Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. Apparently, the Slytherins had been left in a luggage rack somewhere to ooze, and Harry and Ron had returned with a story to tell. She had half a mind to box them both around the ears and dose them with sleeping draughts for the rest of the trip.

Instead, she read them bits of the _Prophet_, not finding their answers nearly as entertaining as Severus's would have been, while they played Wizard's chess.

"It hasn't really started yet," Hermione said when she'd finished the paper. "But it won't be long now…"

"Hey, Harry—"

And the conversation devolved into something about who was dating who. Hermione felt vaguely like she should try to keep up, but she hadn't been much interested in any of it when she had actually been a teenaged girl, so she didn't feel the least bit guilty when she tuned them out.

She could feel Harry drawing in on himself the closer they got to London. When the train began slowing down, she almost reached for him, the boy was just screaming for a hug, but then the moment had passed. They all gathered their things, joking about having too many bags and trying to get wands to stay in pockets while they passed pet carriers around to the proper people (Crookshanks knew something was up, but he hadn't figured out what yet).

When they crossed the barrier between the platforms, she almost hugged him again. Mad-Eye, Lupin and Tonks were there with the Weasleys, and she heard him swallow thickly. And then she almost cried when she heard what they were all there for, not just to say hello to Harry but to talk to the Dursleys for him.

They parted—she squeezed him tight and promised to see him soon. He'd looked… happy, almost, as he'd gone off with his aunt and uncle. Or maybe not happy, but pleased. He'd certainly had more pep in his step than she'd seen in a long time when he led the way out of the station, his relatives hurrying to keep up.

\\\

The summer was interminable. She spent most of her time thinking about what the younger versions of herself were up to. There would be the original one spending the summer at the Burrow, the one with Minerva in Scotland, the one at Hogwarts, the one finishing up in France, the one trying to come up with a viable reason not to accept the job offers from St. Mungo's, the one hiding out in the Spanish countryside avoiding Dumbledore.

She couldn't attend the Order meetings because they were at the Burrow and so was her younger self. What little information she got came from Dumbledore, and he had been acting odd since the debacle at the Department of Mysteries so he wasn't keeping her abreast of everything. It was more like he stopped by once every few weeks to tell her who had died and how, maybe give her a name for the dragon.

Severus stopped by twice, but only briefly each time. He was on lockdown at Spinner's End since the end of term, saddled with Wormtail as a "reward for his services." She was careful not to leak any thoughts to him, and he did the same. But it was so nice to see him.

The first time he'd been in, it was because he'd been involved in a raid and it had gone badly for the Death Eaters. She took the opportunity to give him the folio on Dumbledore's curse, merely telling him that she hoped it would help him sort out a tricky situation in the coming months. The second time, she'd caught herself running her hands through his hair. He'd had a concussion, and she'd mended him and laid him out on the sofa for a short nap. Instead of going about her business, she'd sat on the arm of the sofa and massaged his scalp with her fingertips. It had been lovely. She had had to force herself to walk away from him before he woke up properly.

Both times, he left as soon as he could. She couldn't tell if he was still angry about their argument, or if it was something else. She didn't know what to say to him, anyway.

* * *

**This should probably have been split into two chapters, but I couldn't bring my self to do it. I'd say I was sorry, but I'm not.**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	13. Chapter Twelve

"How is your hand today?"

Dumbledore held up the maimed appendage, moving his fingers and turning his wrist. It was black and gray, mottled here and there with bluish-purple splotches. His fingers looked the worst, darkest at the fingertips with dead white fingernails barely attached to his skin.

"I am adjusting," he said after a moment, then put the hand in his lap, hidden by a fold of his sleeve. She narrowed her eyes at him.

They were in her office. After spending the first month of the summer holiday avoiding her, Dumbledore had arrived at her flat two days after he'd put on the cursed ring. They'd been talking about Horcruxes every afternoon since, and she'd brought him to her office to show him her work.

"I am going to start doctoring your tea if you keep giving me those half answers."

He smirked at her, his eyes almost twinkling. That was progress; he hadn't twinkled since she'd last seen him at Hogwarts.

"Perhaps I will need to invest in a flask. I will consult Alastor."

Hermione chuckled and let the topic drop. If he wanted to be in pain, far be it from her to stand between him and it.

His work was spread out on her workbench. He'd been building what amounted to a psychological profile of Tom Riddle, tracking his life history and making notes. An orphaned boy. The strange, sad story of his parents. Memories of Riddle as a student at Hogwarts. It gave her chills how very like Harry he'd been in so many ways, yet so fundamentally different.

There was no doubt that Voldemort had made multiple Horcruxes (and the thought of _that_ made her shudder, even just from the logistics of it, leaving out that it was _Voldemort_). The diary he'd kept in school, destroyed by Harry in their second year with a basilisk fang. The ring, destroyed by Severus less than a week ago with Fiendfyre. Then there was the bit of soul that possessed Quirrel, which now resided in the new corporeal body. And all evidence pointed to there being more than just the three.

"If only Horace hadn't tampered with the memory," Dumbledore said again, more to himself now than to her. The interest she'd generated for him at Slughorn's Christmas party had come through in the form of a silvery strand of memory, though it had been obviously altered. Their current theory was that Slughorn was ashamed of the information he'd given young Riddle that night. They couldn't operate on theories, though.

"Dangle Harry in front of him," Hermione suggested, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose, hating herself for saying it. She'd only suggested it because she'd known it would work because he'd already done it and it _had_ worked. "And then be sure to bring Harry in on the ruse. He's much more cooperative when he's in on the secrets."

Dumbledore had asked her one morning, out of the blue, what he could do to help Harry stop being so angry with him. Hermione hadn't had any good suggestions, seeing as she was fairly angry with Dumbledore herself most of the time. She'd promised to tell him when she thought of anything, and she had been—it was in Harry's best interest. She'd decided that was her priority.

\\\

"No, I agree with you," Hermione said, Vanishing her long-cooled tea and getting up to start another pot. Dumbledore, who had been pacing the length of the room with his hands clasped behind his back, sank down onto the couch. "It's just, well… How many are we looking for? And once we have a number, or even without one, what items, specifically, are we looking for? Where would he hide them? Personally, I think it would be smart to make one of an average rock and then throw it into the ocean."

"That would guarantee its not being found; however, Voldemort will have wanted his Horcruxes on hand. Their existence keeps him alive wherever they are, but he needs access to them if he wants to use them to bring himself back properly."

Hermione snorted, thinking of the description Severus had given her. Red eyes, reptilian skin, slits for a nose. And unable to carry on with the crazed Lestrange woman, of course. (Couldn't go forgetting that bit.)

"Well," Dumbledore said, twinkling at her, "maybe 'properly' is too strong a word."

She smiled at him and handed him a teacup. She stood at the chalkboard up on one wall, looking over their notes. If anybody had come into the office, they would have assumed the occupants were mad—the chalkboard was covered in notations and arithmantic guesswork, bits of string connecting ideas to each other, magical matrices floating out in front of the ideas they were anchored to, faces magically rendered in chalk staring out from behind reams of notes on the persons in question tacked to the board with Sticking Charms.

"I assume you've already pulled whatever strings you can to have the Death Eaters' homes searched."

"Of course, but with very little success. If Voldemort trusted his followers with his Horcruxes, they have them secreted away someplace other than their homes. Gringotts, I would guess. And the goblins will never consent to a search by the Ministry."

"If you're going to suggest I break into Gringotts…"

"Hardly, my dear. Hardly." Dumbledore twinkled at her and sipped his tea. "That would be inadvisable unless you knew exactly which vault you needed to access. It would hardly be timely to go vault by vault through the old crowd. Most of them are from very old families, all with deep, distant vaults guarded by monstrosities."

"Indeed, sir." Hermione sat in her desk chair—a Muggle thing with wheels that she'd been dragging back and forth around the office for days now. They were quiet a moment, Dumbledore reading from an old scroll of her notes on Horcrux maintenance (or the lack of its necessity, really), and Hermione trying to surreptitiously examine his damaged hand.

"How is Severus fairing these days?" Dumbledore asked without looking up, and Hermione knew she'd been caught. Then her heart began to race, because what if she'd been _caught _caught? Not just caught looking at his hand when he'd told her to let it go, but what if he knew? What if he'd figured it out? She'd been careful not to mention Severus, but what if not mentioning him had been even more obvious than if she _had_ mentioned him?

_Bugger_.

"Severus? Fairly well, I should think. I've only seen him a couple times since he left Hogwarts for the summer."

"Voldemort has him brewing something nasty in his home lab, I believe. And Wormtail is living at his house to act as assistant and watchdog, of course."

Hermione nodded mutely. Severus was surely having a horrible summer, then. Playing nice with the man who had betrayed the woman he'd loved.

"I've asked him to kill me," Dumbledore said conversationally, and Hermione spun her chair around to face him, raising an eyebrow.

"Pettigrew?" she asked, deliberately misinterpreting to give herself time to think of something to say besides 'HOW DARE YOU'.

"Severus." Dumbledore twinkled; he knew full well she'd been playing for time.

"Why not me?" she asked through clenched jaws. "I've already proved I'm good at it."

"True, my dear." He nodded sagely, as if he was actually thinking about it. "However, there have been… developments."

"Oh?" Her voice was flat, and she realized she was Occluding. That was probably a good thing—the last thing that would be useful was emotion in this case.

"Severus has entered into an Unbreakable Vow."

Everything inside her went still. She wasn't frozen so much as caught in the moment at the peak of a jump just before the fall began. The fall was going to hurt.

"With whom?" she finally managed to ask.

"Narcissa Malfoy." Dumbledore set aside the scroll he'd been reading and picked up his tea again, looking down into it as he swirled it in the cup. "It seems young Draco has been given the task of killing me, and his mother asked Severus to help him."

"A Vow is a step too far, don't you think? He's Draco's godfather, after all; it should be assumed that he would help—"

"Bellatrix Lestrange was involved. I believe the request served Narcissa as an assurance that her son would not be killed even if he failed, and served Bellatrix as a test of Severus's loyalty."

Hermione noticed that her hands were shaking and pressed them against the arm rests of her chair to hide it.

"What were the terms of the Vow?"

"To help Draco, to complete the task if he cannot."

"And so you expediated the process for him by _asking_ him to kill you."

"Indeed." Dumbledore set aside his tea and looked at her again. "I am telling you this, Hermione, because I don't know when I am going to die, but I know that I will be dead before the year is out. It is also why I don't want you worrying about my poor hand—there are more important tasks to concern you."

"Of course, sir," she said, her voice brittle. He twinkled at her in an obnoxiously condescending way.

"I need you to be available to Severus after he has killed me. The Order will think he has betrayed them, and they need to think that. But he will be in more danger than ever, so deep in with Voldemort. His soul is fractured, as you well know; he is unstable and he takes it out on those nearest him."

"Yes, sir. I know." She'd managed to remove some of the edge from her voice, but not all of it. She didn't look at him.

_Who the fuck are you to tell me Voldemort takes his moods out on those nearest him? I _know_ that. I'm the one who has been putting Severus together afterwards for the past year!_

"Sir," she said, acutely aware that he would be able to feel the cold of her Occlumency not just hear the blankness in her voice, "what was the point of sending me Turning again and again and again if you're not going to let me help you? Why shouldn't I have carried on as I was if your endgame was your own death?"

"My death is hardly the endgame, my dear," he said patiently, like a benevolent uncle explaining something to a particularly slow child. She seethed, but she tucked it away behind her mental walls for later. "Voldemort is wary of me, but his agents already speckle the Ministry like a blight. Within a month of my death, there will be a coup. Severus may be known as my killer, but he will be in good standing—they will install him as headmaster. He will protect the children while Harry hunts Horcruxes. _That_ is my endgame."

"You want _Harry_ to hunt Horcruxes." Bile rose in he back of her throat.

"And you with him, of course. _That_ is why you needed the Time Turner."

"Harry won't even have finished his N.E.W.T.s!"

"But you have."

Hermione lurched to her feet. Everything she could think to say to him would not end well. Instead, she marched out the door, letting it slam behind her. She Apparated to Spinner's End without thinking. It was just as brown and worn down as it had been in winter, but the bushes on either side of the gate were prickly and green-yellow instead of poky and dead-looking.

She strode up the walk, stomped up the steps of the porch, and threw the door open. Pettigrew was just inside the door, waiting for her knock. He looked confused, then alarmed. She jabbed her wand at him, and he went flying down the length of the narrow hall and crashed into the wall next to the door to the kitchen. He groaned, began to rise, but she Stupefied him, bound him, gagged him, and left him crumpled at the base of the wall.

Severus burst into the hall a second later, wand up and ready for a fight. He froze when he saw her.

"What have you done?" she asked, dropping her wand, hearing it clatter on the floor, and putting her face in her hands. That hadn't been what she'd meant to say, and she wasn't even sure if she was asking it of him or herself, but it didn't matter. The tears came, her Occlumency dissolving away to nothing.

"Hermione," he murmured. They were sitting together in his reading chair, and she was mostly in his lap. Actually, she was entirely in his lap—her hips against one thigh, her legs draped over him and off the side of the chair. He stroked her hair, held her close. It made it very clear how much bigger he was, physically; she felt like a child in his lap, but there was nothing paternal about the hand spread against her waist nor the way his fingers caressed her scalp. She didn't remember the journey from the front hall to the sitting room cum library at the front of the house. "You will mourn him so much?"

She was confused a moment, and then remembered that her Occlumency had crashed down around her. And of course he would pick up on the recent conversation, heavy on her mind.

"Not him, you foolish man," she snapped, pulling away so that she could glare at him. She saw the moment he understood, heard his breath stop for a long moment.

"Hermione."

She couldn't look at him. She rested her forehead against his collarbone and squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands were fists, tangled in his robes. He smelled of hot cauldrons and crushed herbs, the tang of the grease he put in his hair hanging over all of it.

"It's as good as a warrant for your death, and you know it," she said. Her voice would be muffled by his robes, but she was on his lap; he'd bloody hear her. "If you don't do it, the Vow will kill you. If you do do it, Voldemort will kill you for doing something he asked of another."

"I was always going to die in this war." He sounded resigned, and suddenly it made much more sense why he'd been avoiding her all summer. It wasn't because he was being noble, because she was his student and because they were the spy and assassin before they were Severus and Hermione. It was because he planned to die.

He might as well have slapped her.

"I'm a spy," he said, bewildered. She was making the glass in the window quiver, but she didn't care. "It's a foregone conclusion. One side or the other would decide I wasn't trustworthy. Or I'd be caught by 'friendly fire.' Or something I haven't thought of yet."

"Do you _want_ to die?" Electricity crackled through her hair.

He hesitated, then blinked at her. "No."

_For the first time in a long time, that's completely true_.

It was his thought, and it made her ache. It sucked the anger right out of her and made her want to weep again. Instead, she released her death grip on his robes and smoothed them back into place across his chest. He watched her with dark eyes, wary.

"I have been in love with you since the first time you stood behind my chair instead of over by the fire," she told him.

"The fire _is_ behind your chair," he said.

"This can't happen," she said. "It can't." She was shaking, and her hands had balled themselves up in his robes again. Looking down at them, she whispered," I want to be with you. I want to love you. I want to make a go of it."

"Hermione," he said, obviously torn. She could _feel_ his thoughts racing even though she wasn't looking him in the eye and therefore couldn't hear them directly. He knew what he wanted to do and he knew what he should do, and they were two entirely different things. He shook his head, and she raised her eyes to his face. "Hermione, I'm… goddamn possessive. And jealous. And I say the wrong thing all the sodding time." He took a deep breath, and she had to look down at her hands again to hide the smile that was trying to crawl across her face. "I don't sort of slide up to loving somebody, try it out a bit, then put my cards on the table. It's all or nothing. Shit! This isn't what I meant to say."

He looked away toward the dark, gaping doorway that was the stairs going up to the second floor.

"I think," she said slowly, uncurling her hands again and smoothing the robes slowly, feeling his chest, warm beneath the fabric, this time instead of just perfunctorily fixing his clothes, "you might have played your cards already."

"That's beside the point!"

She got the impression that he wanted to escape, to get up and pace the room, to run back down to whatever he was brewing. But she was holding him in place, and his arm was around her, still holding her tight to him.

"The point is that it can't happen even if I want it to!"

"Fuck it," she said, leaning back from him a bit so that she could see him face properly. She had a bad angle, situated as she was, so she twisted and stradled his lap. He was staring down at her, dark eyes growing darker. (It was a provocative position…) She shrugged, daring him to ask her to move. "Fuck it. I'm done playing this game."

_Dumbledore wants me to drag a teenaged boy into a "game" where the opposite side chops souls up for fun. I'm done playing by his rules, weighing his opinions of my choices._

"You're… You're quitting?"

"No. Don't be ridiculous." Because even though she was furious with Dumbledore, she was also invested in the outcome of the war, not just because she was a Muggle-born witch but because people she cared about were involved. She wouldn't leave the fight.

"What do you mean you're done playing the game, then?"

"I'm done deferring to Dumbledore's preferences. I'm going to do what needs to be done, but on my own terms."

"Your terms."

"With you."

He was holding his breath, and it made her smile.

"You are very right, Severus. You're likely to die before the end of the war. And so am I. If we don't hold onto each other now, when will we be able to?"

"I…" He looked away from her again, frowning. "I want— I _don't_ want…"

"He won't find out," she promised. The way the corners of his mouth turned down, not quite a frown, suggested she had guessed wrong, but he just nodded.

"I know that."

"What then? Severus, I don't much care about the rest of it. Well—that's not true. I care a great deal about the rest of it, what we're fighting for. I want a world where you and I can be together without anybody having a say in it, and not just nosy headmasters but old families sneering at us for something as stupid as 'blood status.'"

Severus smirked at her, and she rolled her eyes. He'd been dealing with 'blood status' issues for much longer than she had, and in closer quarters.

"Sorry. What I mean to say is, I want _us_ to be a factor in the things we do, even when it's things we do for the fight. If that has to be a secret right now, so be it. I can keep a secret."

He actually cracked a smile at that, but he still looked wary. After a moment's thought, he sighed and smiled tenderly at her, lifting a hand and putting a curl behind her ear.

"Well then."

"Well then, what?"

"There's no use pretending I wouldn't follow you to hell and back if you asked me."

"Hopefully not to hell, no," she said. Something decidedly feminine inside her had perked up when he'd touched her hair, and it was purring contentedly. His hand traced the line of her jaw, coming to rest on the side of her neck.

"Some days I think we're already there."

"Not today; not right now," she said, putting her hand on top of his. He smiled, but it was a sad smile.

"I am still likely to die in the coming year."

"Oh, me too," she said, releasing his hand to fiddle with the buttons on his robes. He was wearing thick, heavy gray robes good for brewing in a cellar.

"You will not," he said decisively, his other arm wrapping itself around her waist and pulling her tight to him. He was very warm, and it made her realize that she'd left her cloak and robes at her office. She'd been wearing Muggle clothes beneath the robes; her skirt had rucked up around her hips when she straddled him, and the air was cool against her legs.

"I haven't taken any Vows, but I'm almost as likely to go as you are. We're both in danger quite often, and me a free agent away from the school."

"And thank Merlin for that—do you realize how strange that was? You were wearing a younger face, but your eyes were the same as they are now. And you'd brush my mind and I'd look at you and remember that you were _you_..."

"I wondered what was going through your mind. I thought you might be mad at me."

"I think I was."

"I was mad at you, too."

"For asking you what would happen?"

"Yes."

"I understand _why_ you don't say, but it is a very frustrating thing to know that you know more, and not just more but helpful things. And I was stressed."

"Apology accepted," she said, smirking. He smirked back at her, and she shifted in his lap so that she could lean forward and kiss him. It was a tender kiss, sweet while it lasted and slow to end.

In the hall, Pettigrew moaned.

"I only have one real secret left, and it's one Dumbledore isn't ready for you to know yet." She bit her lip, sitting back. "May I tell you anyway?"

He hesitated, but just for a moment. Then he nodded. Hermione pressed the memories of her recent meetings with Dumbledore to him. His eyes went wide as he absorbed her thoughts, but he didn't look away or block her out.

"Shit."

She smirked, then nodded. "Exactly."

Pettigrew groaned again, and Hermione sighed. She'd have to leave now. She really shouldn't have come in the first place, but there hadn't exactly been a rational thought process. Severus leaned up and kissed her, distracting her from her idea of leaving. His hands were on her hips, keeping her firmly in his lap. She was suddenly very aware that she was straddling him, and her skirt had ridden up her hips so that she could feel the scratch of his robes against the bit of bare thigh above the top of her stockings.

"I really have to go," she murmured, but didn't make a real effort to stand up. His hands were moving across the skin of her stomach beneath her shirt, light and teasing.

Pettigrew thumped in the hallway. He'd fully revived, but he was still bound and blindfolded. Eventually, he would get free.

"I wish you could stay."

She stroked the side of his face with her fingertips, almost reeling from the jumble of emotions mixing between them. She could feel his loneliness mixing with her anger toward Dumbledore, her desire to hold onto him forever mixing with his hatred of the man in the other room; and over it all was a fine sheen of lust glowing between them both.

_I love you_. The thought hovered between them, more of a shared emotion held up as proof and fact than a statement from either of them. It didn't change the fact that she had to leave the house and he had to retreat to the lab and continue brewing poisons, but—

Something shuddered below the house, a small explosion contained by the wards. Severus surged to his feet, carrying her with him until she got her feet under her.

"If that damndable rat has blown himself up, the Dark Lord will kill _me_," he snarled. Hermione bit her lip and followed him out of the library, down the hall (the conjured bindings and gag were sitting at the base of the wall where Pettigrew had been, knots still firm in their place), and through the kitchen to the door down to the cellar.

The wards were shimmering white-blue. Inside them, the room was a mess. Thick, mucus-y potion dripped off the ceiling. Pettigrew was on his knees next to the worktable, clutching his face in his hands and moaning. There was potion on him, too, and signs that the hot liquid had burned him.

"Ironically," Severus said, looking over the mess, "that was going to be Burn Paste."

Hermione chuckled, stepping back up a stair when Severus closed the door on the mess.

"Idiot," Severus muttered.

"I'm sorry," she said, because it _was_ her fault. He shook his head and kissed her gently.

"He's an idiot. I had a stasis on that cauldron, and if he hadn't gone snooping it would have been fine." Severus glanced at the door and rolled his eyes when they both heard the rat moaning. "He was the Neville Longbottom of my year. Utterly hopeless at Potions—and don't try to defend Longbottom, you know it's true. Maybe this will finally convince the Dark Lord the rat isn't a worthwhile assistant in the lab, and he's no good as butler either since he was absolutely useless at keeping the dragon out when she came for a chat."

Hermione smirked at him because he looked so petulantly grouchy that it was amusing, and because if she told him she found his grouchiness amusing he'd be even grouchier.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

For all her grand statements of throwing expectations out the window, Hermione didn't manage to see Severus again for the rest of the summer. He was still locked away in his miserable little house with the rat, and she was still talking Horcruxes with Dumbledore.

It was the third uninterrupted day in a row—the Death Eater attacks on Muggles and Order-sympathizers had fallen off in recent weeks—and Hermione had reluctantly agreed to meet Tonks for drinks.

She wore a blue dress, sleeveless with a sweetheart neckline, a bit '50s in the way the skirt flared out from hip to knee. It was a good summer dress for a night on the town with a friend. It showed off a bit of her scars, but that was half the reason she'd chosen it—Tonks had an ulterior motive for inviting her out, and the scars would surely put a crimp in whatever her plan of attack had been.

If she'd been meeting Severus in the dress, she would have added some jewelry and tamed her curls with Sleakeezy, but since it was just Tonks she skipped the jewelry and wore her hair in a French braid. She was dressed up enough not to be noticed for being underdressed, but not dressed up enough to stick out.

She'd never thought much about her clothes before she'd been hiding in plain sight.

"Sam."

"Tonks."

They sat at a booth near the bar. It was a smoky place not far from Diagon Alley, popular with young witches and wizards. Hermione had never been before.

"What're we drinkin'?" their waitress asked without actually looking at them.

They ordered—Tonks asked for a fruity cocktail and looked surprised when Hermione ordered firewhiskey—and the waitress wandered off. They sat awkwardly while they waited. Hermione couldn't think of a thing to talk about, and Tonks didn't seem particularly interested in making the first conversational move. Hermione began to expect it was an Auror's gambit, letting her do the talking.

"So…" Hermione said eventually. Their drinks had arrived, and they'd both taken a few tentative sips. "How is work?"

"Quieter lately, which is good," Tonks said, smiling politely. "And you?"

"It's our busy season, as it happens. All the summer cuttings are in, so there's plenty of prep work to do. This year's crop of mandrake turned out particularly well—I spent most of last week slicing them for pickilng. Not a fun task, let me tell you."

"I always thought they looked rather cute."

"At Hogwarts, maybe. I only remember repotting them before they reached maturity. The fully mature plant is gnarly and wrinkled-looking. They tend to bite, and they certainly don't like to be chopped up."

Tonks wrinkled her nose and sipped her drink. Hermione shrugged.

"It makes for a quiet day for me, which is nice. You have to ward in the screams, you know. And I wear charmed earmuffs. Keeps my boss out of my hair for the day."

They shared a smile and lapsed back into silence.

"When were you at Hogwarts?" Tonks asked, and Hermione had to remind herself not to narrow her eyes at the other woman. It was a leading question, surely.

"It seems like a lifetime ago, and like it was just last year," Hermione said instead, grinning. "You weren't there, surely. I would've remembered you." She looked deliberately up at Tonks's vibrant hair, which had recently shifted from bubblegum pink to a rich violet . Tonks grinned, and her hair turned blue to match Hermione's dress.

Wherever the conversation would've gone—and Hermione had been hoping to figure out who'd put Tonks up to it, and what they were trying to find out about her—was interrupted by Minerva's Patronus. The tabby cat darted through the north wall, startling more than a few people. There were a few curses, grumbled protests. Half the pub turned to watch.

"Floo to my office at Hogwarts immediately."

The cat vanished, leaving quiet in its wake.

"Well then," Hermione said, knocking back the last of her drink and putting a few sickles down to cover it. "I guess I'm off. Sorry, Tonks."

"It's alright. It was nice chatting."

Hermione nodded politely, and then paid the barkeep the knut fee for a pinch of Floo Powder.

The office was as it always was, except for the cold. That was telling of the problem there and then.

"Hermione?" Minerva said, and Hermione suddenly realized that this would be the Minerva who knew about their summer together, who had lived the tutoring. The first staff meeting before term had been today. She was finally catching up to herself.

"Minerva," Hermione said, feeling something uncramp inside her chest. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed the familiarity with her Head of House, the closeness from that summer.

"Why didn't you say something? I hardly recognize you! I _didn't _recognize you. Are you alright?" Minerva said, pulling her into a tight hug.

"Don't be daft," Severus's voice came from the chair, reminding Hermione of the source of the cold. "She was ordered not to say anything."

There might have been a snide undertone in that last sentence, but Hermione ignored it. She looked at Minerva and nodded apologetically, squeezing her hand once, silently promising details later. She turned to Severus. He was a wreck, mentally. He'd been Occluding too long, for one. And on top of that, somebody had been prodding at his shields.

"What's going on?" she asked, deciding not to leap to any conclusions. The obvious one was that she'd been called to force him to not damage himself, but she couldn't see him sitting there and waiting for her to arrive for that. Unless it was worse than she thought…

"Something about Occlumency," Minerva said, huffing. Hermione smiled. Severus scowled.

"It's been… since I saw you last," he said from his chair, and she noticed he was trembling.

"Oh," she said, her brain grinding to a halt for a long moment. "Shit."

"Language, Granger," he said, but there was none of the usual vitriol. In fact, even the scowls didn't have anything behind them. His eyes were perfectly blank. Not even fathomless, simply flat and empty. He was beyond the point of danger, beginning to actually do damage to his mind.

"You have to drop them right now," she said, taking a few steps closer to the chair. The cold intensified, and she felt his magic snap along her skin.

"Well thanks; I hadn't thought of that," he said, bitingly sarcastic. "Don't you think I fucking tried that already?"

"Language, Snape," she said, mimicking his tone from before, but thinking of other solutions. She could always… but that was invasive. Intimate.

"I had her call you for a reason," he snapped, obviously seeing where her mind had gone in her face, because he certainly wouldn't be picking up any leaking thoughts in his current state. "Just do it already."

"Er, Minerva," Hermione said, turning to look at the older witch. "Do you have any experience with Occlumency?"

"Not really," Minerva said. Hermione had thought not. For such a useful skill, especially with the war, surprisingly few people had studied mind magic. "I read a book on it once." She shrugged. "I can usually tell when somebody is trying Legilimency on me."

"You'll feel this, then," Hermione said, turning back to Severus. "You might want to sit down."

Minerva did so, settling across the room and looking wary. Hermione ignored her, stepping up to Severus. He had closed his eyes, fists clenched on his thighs. He was sitting up ramrod straight in the student chair by the desk, his usually immaculate teaching robes rumpled around him. She could feel him trying to force the shileds down and failing.

Hermione put her hands on his head, index fingers to his temples, thumbs on his cheekbones, the rest of her fingers spread back across his face. He hadn't been brewing lately, so there was no grease in his hair.

"Ready?"

"No." But he opened his eyes, and she started anyway.

At first, just that casual caress of his mind, her usual greeting, and he flinched under her hands. She lowered her forehead to his, bringing their eyes close. At such close range, she could see the line between pupil and iris, the darkest brown barely differentiated from the black. He was shaking more violently now, not quite twitching just trembling fiercely.

Her magic rolled out around them. It was habit, not to mention just plain polite, to keep it within, to veil it. It was also good strategy, as enemies who had never felt the brush of magic could be misled, could be made to underestimate. (Hermione had been underestimated a lot in her life.)

Once the room was thrumming with her magic, she pushed into his mind. His Occlumency was there, a solid wall, impenetrable. Usually, his Occlumency was subtle. He shielded his thoughts, the truths of his being, with innocuous and false memories. His subconscious was truly desperate to have gone on lockdown like this, staving off the madness and decay of too much mind magic.

She thought about their times together. Those not-arguments over books and academic points, the time they spent in the Grimmauld cellar brewing together, the hours and hours they'd spent in her kitchen while he bled and she patched him up.

His mind softened against hers, the gigantic mental wall going translucent and pliable.

She let out a relieved breath; she hadn't been sure it would work. He'd spent his entire adult life pushing people away. For good reason, yes, but that still left him here with her as his best option to draw him out. He had to trust her for it to work. Apparently he trusted her.

Slowly, the thrum of his magic, his presence, filtered into the room. It came in flashes, spurts of power, and a few leaked memories. She saw him crumpled outside the Fat Lady's portrait, begging forgiveness. She saw him tickling a toddler that could only be Draco Malfoy, comfortably sprawled with the baby on a blanket in a well-appointed nursery. She saw him pacing the length of his office at Hogwarts, scowling darkly.

She smoothed her mind over and around his again. She thought about how much she liked spending time with him, how he was a good man and she was glad to know him. She thought about how it felt when he kissed her. He wouldn't pick up on the specific thoughts; he just needed to feel the timbre of her mind, feel safe.

His Occlumency shields shattered. Hermione gripped his head tighter to keep from flinching. She contained the explosion of magic and thought. It wasn't quite painful, just overwhelming.

She _felt _what he'd felt when the memories washed over her. She felt his loneliness and terror and desire when he was first branded with the Dark Mark, and she felt the anxiety when he woke the next morning. She felt the pride of holding his Potions Mastery certificate in his hands, and the taint he'd associated with it because he'd only got the apprenticeship through Voldemort's connections and Malfoy's money. She _felt _his pain when Lily Potter died, and his hatred of the boy who she'd died for, then his self-loathing for the hatred of a child who couldn't help who he was, the guilt. She felt the swooping joy he did when he flew on a broomstick. She felt his rage when Harry had snooped in his Pensieve, and his lust the first time he'd kissed her. She felt a strange, hopeful tenderness in the memory of their conversation at her flat the morning after the debacle at the Ministry, and the terror he'd felt when he'd visited her younger self in St. Mungo's not long after.

But mostly, she felt the horror and guilt and disgust and fear of innumerable calls to meetings and revels with the Death Eaters. The shuddering terror of kneeling and exposing his neck to the madman who called himself Lord Voldemort. The sickness that ate down to his soul when he was forced to watch his Death Eater "brothers" rape, maim and kill, forced to smile as they did it. The guilt of brewing poisons for the Dark Lord, knowing that even if he brewed the antidotes, too, there would be no way to get them to the intended victims.

And through all of the memories, she felt his resolve to keep going, to do it, to see it through to the end. Not for Dumbledore, not for Lily Potter, not even for Harry Potter. He was doing it because he wanted a future where he could have a wife and children, where he wouldn't be afraid for his life and/or limbs, not to mention his sanity, on a daily basis. He wanted to end the war, and to put it all so thoroughly behind him that nobody remembered he'd been anything other than some dark-haired child's dad.

When the worst of it faded, Hermione realized she was crying. She wasn't sure why she was crying. Most of it wasn't new information—they'd talked about Lily Potter and what happened when he was summoned—but to feel it all as he felt it, so raw… It was no wonder he was scowling and miserable so often.

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to take away the hurt of it, if she could.

Speckled through all the memories had been images of her, memories of her. Encounters over the last year, most of them at her flat. He liked it when she touched his hair. He liked waking up and she was the first person he saw. And in the half-view of the dream he had for his future, the one with a wife and children, she was cast as the wife.

If Minerva hadn't been in the room, she would have volunteered to help him make the dream a reality immediately. The antidote to her contraceptive took two hours to brew. Or she could take Blood Replenishing Potion, that had a 90 percent chance of nullifying the contraceptive.

Power continued to surge, but the memories had stopped. His mind was free of barriers again, and the initial tsunami had subsided back to the banks of his own mind. She could feel him against her mind, raw and sore but not damaged. His subconscious had successfully insulated him, and he'd called her to help him release in time.

Shaking, she stepped back. Her hands on his head became a caress, remembering that he liked the feel of it. She would've stroked his hair some more, kissed him, but Minerva was just behind her… Hermione let her hands fall to her sides. He sat there, hands braced on his thighs, and breathed deeply.

When Hermione looked back, she saw that Minerva was tense, her eyes wide. A glancing probe revealed that the Transfigurations Mistress could feel the power surging around the room, but hadn't glimpsed any of the thoughts or memories, and for that Hermione was thankful.

"Tea," Hermione said, breaking the tension in the room. "Let's have a pot of tea."

Severus's hand twitched when she stepped away, and she just knew that he'd wanted to reach for her hand to keep her by his side. She brushed his mind with hers as she turned away, acknowledging the aborted gesture.

Minerva looked up at her, eyes still wide, not comprehending. Hermione smiled and gathered the tea things. The professor had kept everything in the same place at her house, a little chest near the fireplace. There was an old copper kettle bubbling away eternally, hanging from a battered hook in the fireplace. Hermione put the leaves in the teapot, then added the water from the kettle, putting the kettle back in the fire and putting the teapot on the tray on the low table near Snape. The little chest where Minerva kept the tea also had sugar and slices of lemon and such, and she set the things out on the little side table.

After the tea had steeped, Hermione poured them each a cup, pressing them into each professors' hands. Severus took his with sugar; Minerva took hers with lemon. Minerva smiled, coming out of her shock at the contact. Severus took a bit more convincing, a squeeze of his hands as she handed over the teacup and another brush against his mind. He wasn't raw anymore, just tired.

Severus smiled at her gently as he took the teacup, and said, "Thank you."

The gesture surprised Minerva. Her teacup rattled on her saucer. Severus rolled his eyes, making Hermione chuckle. She was glad to see the softness in his inky eyes, glad to see that her chuckle had made him happy.

What an odd thought. An odd, enticing thought.

Hermione settled on the sofa, and Severus joined her a moment later. Minerva was in the chair closest to the fire, staring at the flames thoughtfully. Severus took advantage of Minerva's distraction to put his hand on Hermione's knee for a moment, squeezing gently before he settled back into the cushions. Hermione wished she could settle into his side the way he'd done with the cushions, but that would hardly be socially appropriate even if they weren't trying to keep their closeness a secret.

"You obviously did more with that Time Turner than I was led to believe," Minerva said, breaking the oddly relaxed silence that had settled on the room. Hermione and Severus had long since packed their magic and their minds back away into themselves. Hermione could feel him rebuilding his walls, sectioning off the nightmares from the rest of his consciousness, preparing the barriers and the internal defenses. Those walls were a good thing, a constant thing unless they were shattered as she'd had to do to them. It was the active Occlumency, forcefully keeping the world out, that led to damage, not compartmentalization. _She _maintained quite a bit of magical compartmentalization.

"Yes," Hermione agreed, smiling at her mentor.

"It would be quite rude to ask her her age next," Severus said, smirking over his teacup. "Never ask a woman her age."

Hermione smiled into her tea and withheld comment. Her heart was fluttering. She could practically feel her ovaries perking up, looking around, and fixing on Severus Snape in a decidedly predatory fashion. She knew his secret now, and she wanted in.

"He sent me all over the place, going back again and again so that I'd have more time," Hermione said.

There was something dancing in her stomach, fluttering almost like she was nervous. But why should she be nervous?

_Oh, that's right,_ she remembered, _you've just decided you want to be Mrs. Severus Snape. And have his babies._

Not nervous, then. It was anticipation. She'd get him alone before the night was out.

The conversation meandered for awhile as they drank their tea. Minerva told Severus a bit about their summer together, and Hermione told them the innocuous bits about France and Egypt. She found herself wondering if Minerva knew about "the dragon" but the more they talked the more she doubted it.

"And where did we call you in from?" Minerva asked while the third pot of tea steeped.

"Hm?" Hermione asked. Minerva smiled benignly.

"You're all dressed up. Were you someplace interesting?" Minerva handed out fresh cups of tea, then her smile turned wicked. "Did you have a date?"

Hermione felt Severus tense beside her, and leaned into his side as much as she figured she could without Minerva noticing. "No," she said, possibly more sharply than the question merited. She felt as though it had taken a long time to fall in properly with Severus, and the last thing they needed was nonexistent competition and unwarranted jealousy. "No, I was out with Tonks."

"Oh, isn't that nice," Minerva said, reverting to her benign smile from earlier. "I didn't realize the two of you were friendly."

"We aren't particularly," Hermione conceded, sipping her tea. "I think she can smell something off about Sam Barnes, and she was hoping to have a go at unraveling the mystery away from headquarters."

"Sorry to interrupt your evening of subterfuge, then," Severus said sullenly from beside her.

"I'm glad you did." Hermione resisted the urge to bump his shoulder with hers for a moment, and then decided that shoulder-bumping was allowed. Friends bumped shoulders, and Minerva would have already realized that they were friends. He looked surprised but pleased by the contact, and she grinned at him. "You certainly needed it. And, really, I was just yammering at her about the apothecary."

Severus chuckled. "I imagine you had plenty to say."

"We got the summer cuttings in last Thursday."

"I thought you smelled like brine."

She drove her elbow into his ribs, and he almost spilled his tea. Minerva laughed.

"I've been pickling mandrakes, you ass," she said. "And I _don't_ smell like brine."

_What does it say about me that I want to take you to bed despite the smell of the apothecary on you?_ he asked her when she met his eyes, and she had to look away to keep from blushing.

"Oh, Severus," Minerva said, catching sight of a folded newspaper when she went to set down her empty cup. "Did you see this? Over the summer…" She handed over the paper. It was folded open to the second page. "It was in Spain; it didn't get much mention in our papers, surprisingly—" She cut herself off, noting the look that passed between Severus and Hermione.

"Don't you dare!" Hermione snapped at him, feeling the cold as he drew his Occlumency around him again, too soon. "_You _don't have to hide from a conversation _I _don't want to have."

"I don't bloody want to have it, either," he muttered, dropping his shields and glaring petulantly at her, hiding behind his teacup.

Minerva cleared her throat, and the pair of them startled. Hermione looked guiltily down at her hands, which didn't help her feel any better. Then Severus was there. He poured a generous measure of scotch into her teacup and then left the bottle on the little table within easy reach of her and Minerva. He didn't take any himself.

"Why don't you want to talk about Remy Bird?" Minerva asked, looking from one of them to the other.

Hermione sighed and held out her scarred hand. It didn't mean anything to Minerva the way it had to Severus, as she'd never been to the Fights or hung around with a crowd that liked to share all the gory details of the setup. Minerva looked at the scars, brows furrowed.

"That is what Remy Bird did to the brawlers who tried to escape his Muggle Fights," Severus said. He leaned forward and traced a pair of parallel lines down the bone of her index finger. His hand was shaking. "As you can see, she had two unsuccessful attempts."

"I don't know what the headmaster was thinking, sending me to Spain," Hermione said. "That man was a bag of dicks."

Severus surprised them both by bursting out in gales of laughter. Hermione smirked.

\\\

"I'll walk you out," Severus said, pushing himself to his feet with a groan, then holding out a hand to help her up.

"Thank you."

"You could use the Floo," Minerva offered, standing as well.

"My fireplace isn't connected," Hermione said, though she hadn't given it a thought. Surely Severus didn't mean to actually walk her out—this was the perfect opportunity to finally be alone. "It will be quicker if I go to the gates and Apparate back."

"Very well, then. Goodnight, my dear. It was lovely to see you properly." Minerva hugged her and patted her shoulder. "Goodnight to you too, Severus. I will see you in the morning—the Governors will be in for brunch."

"I can hardly wait," Severus said, words dripping with disdain even when he smirked at her. Minerva rolled her eyes at him before hugging him, too.

They left, and Severus put her arm through his. She wanted to walk close, put her other hand on his arm as well, and lean her head against his shoulder—anything for more contact—but the halls were lined with portraits duty-bound to report odd behavior to the headmaster. (Not to mention the only entertainment the portraits really had was gossip.) Occasionally, one of the portraits would call out a greeting to the professor, and he would nod politely as they kept moving.

"It's strange being back," she said softly. The only sound in the hall was the clip of her heels (his tread was silent, as he was in his dragonhide boots) and the rustle of their clothes; it would have been odd to speak above a whisper. "They're exactly the same as the last time I was here, of course. No time has actually passed."

"It has for you," he replied, his voice a low rumble.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, eventually coming to the familiar Defense classroom door. It opened at the touch of his hand, revealing the usual rows of desks, tall windows letting in the sunset along one wall, the staircase up to his office at the front of the room.

"Oh, you haven't hung the posters yet," she said. The blackboard was blank, the teacher's desk sitting in a pool of orange-red light. It was all as she remembered (if more romantically lit), but the walls were bare stone.

"Posters?"

"Yes. Those ghastly curse victims."

"Ah. I hadn't decided about those. The first years are so small, you know."

"You are a sweetheart under all that wool." She smiled at him and put her hand in his instead of looped through his elbow, squeezing gently. One side of his lips quirked up in a half-smile.

"I do actually like children, you know. I like teaching, even if most of them are dunderheads. I have a reputation for scaring them, but they need to be on their guard around cauldrons and I was always better at scaring them into it than coddling them."

"I was never afraid of you. You made me nervous, of course, but everything was too interesting to really be afraid."

"I made you cry at least once."

She didn't want to talk about any of that, least of all the episode with her teeth. Instead she walked down the aisle between the student desks and took a seat at the one that had been hers. She hadn't grown at all since then, aside form a bit of filling out in a feminine sort of way, so it felt almost the same to sit there.

Severus walked down the aisle toward his desk and suddenly she couldn't stand the reminder. She put her hands on her desk, spreading her fingers out and looking at them. She always tried not to, what with the reminder of the scars there, but sitting in her old desk and seeing them there was somehow grounding.

"Is it awkward for you?" she asked, looking up from her hands to see him watching her from the front of the room. He was leaning back against the desk, relaxed, in his element, in his place.

"Is what awkward?"

"It was a decade ago for me. Sitting in this chair, taking my copious notes." She said it lightly, trying to make it almost a joke.

She got up, looking at him from the desk making her uncomfortable. He held out his arm and pulled her into his side when she took his hand. It was warm against him, his robes pooling around both of them. She leaned into his embrace. His hands settled on her waist.

"And no, to answer your question. It's not particularly awkward. Not as awkward as it should probably be, anyway."

They stood like that for a long moment. She was hyper-aware of the heat of him, the little circle his thumb was tracing on her hip. The room was quiet, and the castle was quiet beyond it. The sun was warm, and there were particles of dust floating through the rays of light coming in the windows.

"Come with me," he said, breaking the silence. "I didn't bring you here to stand in a ruddy classroom."

She smirked as he led her up the stairs by the hand. They went up and through the door to his office, then through another door behind the desk in the office and into his private rooms. She barely had time to notice the stacks and stacks of papers on the big desk before the door was closed and the candles in his sitting room flickered to life.

His rooms at Hogwarts were almost the exact opposite of his house at Spinner's End. Where Spinner's End was threadbare, a barely-habitable storage space for his more dangerous books, these rooms were homey. There was a beautiful Oriental rug on the floor, wingback chairs by the fireplace with deep brown velvet upholstery, a sofa with cream-colored cushions, and a porcelain tea set waiting on the low coffee table. A large window with a deep window seat (converted into a shelf for books) overlooked the lake. Several doors led off to other rooms, all of them dark wood that looked like it had been recently been polished.

Hermione stopped once the door had closed behind her, and kept him close with her hold on his hand. He turned to face her, standing very straight, looking down at her with raised eyebrows.

"Severus," she said, then changed her mind and asked him a question instead: "Why were you so angry about my scar?"

"Because you wouldn't let me do anything about it."

"Why should you want to do anything about it?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, stepping closer. She could feel the door at her back, half a step away from leaning against it as she looked up at him.

"I think we've made that quite clear to each other already," he said softly. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You told me once that you were mine."

"I am." She didn't even hesitate. Maybe she should have, but she didn't.

"Then you should let me do things for you." He was very nearly smirking.

"I don't need to be protected. Or _coddled_."

"No, you don't need it. That's why I want to do it."

"Severus—"

"This is… There are small things… Gods, Hermione. I just want a normal life."

He sounded so defeated that she let go of his hand to run her hands up his chest and into his hair, pulling his face down so that she could snog him. She quickly lost control of it, and he had her pressed back against the door, their bodies molded together, his hands around her waist, her hips, teasing the undersides of her breasts.

"Severus," she said when she had to stop to breathe, "when I was… when we were—" She interrupted herself to lean her head back against the door so that she could look up at him more easily. "I love you," she sighed. "I want a normal life too, Sev. With you. With… no war, no killing, no only seeing you when you're hurt or we've thought of some other pretense."

She meant to keep going, but he interrupted her to say, "I love you, too, you know."

"I want you children, Severus," she said, and then snapped her mouth shut because that wasn't how she'd planned to bring that up at all. And, out loud, it sounded so _stupid_.

"Can you imagine bringing a child into the world right now?"

She smiled at him, then frowned. "Especially not a child of somebody like me."

"Don't," he said, his hands clenching on her hips. "Don't _ever_, Hermione."

She tried very hard not to smile like a loon. He looked down at her, eyes intense, and stepped away. He took hold of her hand again and led her through one of the doors into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind them.

It wasn't a large room, but it wasn't small either. There was a wardrobe on one wall, done in black lacquer and silver knobs. The bed was the Hogwarts standard four-poster, but a queen size instead of the single beds in the dorms. The wood was dark and polished like the doors, and the hangings were Slytherin green. The bedside tables each had books stacked on them, one of them had a proper reading lamp. The wall opposite the wardrobe had three narrow windows giving the same view as the one in the sitting room.

"You know," Severus said thoughtfully, dropping her hand so that he could put both hands on her hips again, "I don't think I've ever actually invited anybody into this room before."

"I'm flattered."

He smirked down at her, kissing her forehead. "If I had it my way, you'd live here with me."

"Is that your way of asking me to marry you?"

"I'm selfish enough to bring you here," he said, "but I'm not selfish enough to ask you to stay."

"That's good. I don't think I'd have the fortitude to turn you down."

He smiled and lifted a hand to cup her cheek, pulling her closer.

He was tentative at first, lips just brushing hers in a series of feather-light kisses. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed him back, nipping at his lower lip. He groaned; his hand left her face and he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

She shoved his teaching robes off his shoulders, leaving them to puddle around them on the floor. He started working on the buttons of his frock coat. When those were done, he undid the shirt buttons beneath, then shrugged both off in a quick movement.

"Unzip me?" she asked, breaking away from his lips to turn around. His hands traced over her back and shoulders before finding the zip and drawing it down the back of the dress. She shrugged the straps off her shoulders and the dress fell to the floor; she kicked her shoes off as she stepped out of the cloth, losing a few inches when she did.

His eyes were dark and he looked… enraptured. It made her heart beat faster to see that look on his face when he was looking at her.

One long finger traced the curve of her waist, the outside edge of her breast, and then looped under the strap of her slip. He glanced at her, asking permission, and she nodded.

_Yours, remember?_ she asked when he met her eyes, and he smiled before he leaned down to kiss her again.

Her slip was quickly gone. His hands were everywhere, pulling her to him. Naked skin on naked skin, and it was hard to breathe. Then his hands drifted, sliding lower, and he picked her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

They crashed down on the mattress. His hand snaked around to undo the clasp of her bra, and she pulled the straps down her arms a moment later.

He leaned down to kiss her again, and she threaded her hands through his hair. He kissed down her neck, across her collarbones. He found the beginning of the scar and kissed it, then continued down the length of it, over the swell of her breast, between her breasts, across her stomach, ending just above the knob of her hip bone.

Even after so many years, the scar tissue was sensitive. She was gasping from the tender touch, reveling in the kisses, and didn't realize he'd hooked his fingers into her knickers until they and her were off. She gasped, fingers clenching in his hair, when his tongue slid between her folds and drew a hot, wet line from her entrance to her clit.

"Severus!" Her knees spread without consulting her, giving him plenty of space to move. He grinned up at her, mouth hovering above her sex.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time."

"You—you—" She couldn't actually think what she wanted to say. He smirked and lowered his face.

For awhile, it was all sucking lips, probing fingers, and the flick of his tongue. Hermione writhed, moving her hands to fist the blankets instead of his hair. Then little bursts of light exploded across her eyes as she came, a moan turning into a scream.

His mouth was on hers again, and she could taste herself on his tongue. She muttered his name, trying to help him undo his belt and remove his trousers, but their fingers tangled with each other. He pressed her to the bed, ignoring his half-undone trousers, and pinned her hands to either side of her head. His hips thrust against hers, and she groaned in frustration.

"Off, Severus. Take them off."

He jerked away from her, yanking on the last of his clothes, stripping away boots and socks with frustrated hands when the trousers got stuck on them.

Finally, the last boot thunked to the floor, and she slid around, lifting her leg to swing over his lap, and straddled him. She sank down, sucking in a breath as he filled her. Severus groaned. She pushed against his shoulders, urging him to lay back, but he wouldn't go. He grabbed her by the hips, holding her body around his, and twisted them both so that she was lying beneath him.

Still slick and sensitive from the orgasm he'd brought her to with his mouth, it was all Hermione could do not to come again within seconds. He was stretching her, filling her. In and out. Delicious friction. His hips slammed to hers, his cock tickling that particular spot within her. His balls slapped wetly against her as he slammed home.

He shouted wordlessly, and he sunk in one last time, spasming. There was new warmth deep inside, spurting with each of his shivers on top of her.

"Oh," she said, and came again. Her body clenched around his cock, milking him as she arched into him.

They lay together breathing for a long while. He was mostly on top of her, almost too heavy, but she didn't have the energy to tell him to get off, and he didn't seem to have the energy to move anyway. She held onto him, their legs tangled in a lovers' braid, the sweat cooling on their bodies.

"I love you," he whispered. She opened her eyes; he was staring down at her, propped up on the elbows he had planted on either side of her head. She smiled and lifted her head to kiss him, biting her lip to keep herself from beaming like a fool when he smiled back at her. A warm, relaxed smile that took years off his face.

"I love you, too," she said, giving up on restraint and letting the smile escape.

"Here. Come here," he said, shifting off her and urging her to climb under the covers with him. They were clumsy, sleepy, but eventually they managed to settle. Hermione promptly fell asleep.

They roused sometime around two in the morning for slow, sleepy sex. At six, it was the mad pounding sort that set the bed creaking, and the headboard thumping against the wall.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

He was distracted at best that last week before term. He needed to focus on the Defense curriculum, the new lessons plans. There was a giant filing cabinet in the office at the back of the Defense classroom, his new office, filled with the planning from the past eight years' worth of teachers. They'd been trash. He'd spent the summer rewriting them, folding in the useful bits and discarding the rest. He'd made Wormtail do the tedious bits, sorting the files by year level and labeling each old lesson plan by teacher.

This week, he was supposed to be organizing his own new plans, setting his new classroom up the way he wanted it to be. But all he could think about was her.

Hermione had eased into his mind, bracing herself against the wall of his Occlumency and emanating comfort and familiarity, and he'd _wanted_ her inside his shields. He'd wanted her to see his soul.

Usually, a thought like that would be riddled with insecurity. After a lifetime mostly friendless, listening to students whisper about the greasy bat of the dungeons, he was always looking for the ulterior motives. He'd brushed her mind, too, though. It was impossible to feel unwanted, or even to want to push her away by showing her his own darkness, when he'd seen her just as she'd seen him.

At first, it had been a kaleidoscope of a happy, if sugar-deprived, childhood. She hadn't had friends when she was young, but she hadn't noticed it until Hogwarts. And then she'd had Potter and Weasley, and it was almost painful to watch their youthful adventures, to watch her sitting on the floor in the girls' toilet checking and double-checking the steps for Polyjuice, almost making so many mistakes.

He'd watched her bullied by his godson. Watched her ostracized by her friends, sitting in Hagrid's hut drinking his foul tea and sniffling. He'd watched her exhaust herself with the first Time Turner. She'd been the one to thump the Summoning Charm into Harry Potter's head before the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, staying up to all hours of the night in empty classrooms. She'd seen the triumphant look on Dolohov's twisted face when his _Sectumspempra_ had hit her in the chest and he'd thought he'd killed her.

He saw his own first lesson with the sixth years in Defense. The classroom was exactly as he had it, and she'd been both fascinated and disgusted by the posters he'd mounted on the walls.

The worst of her memories had been her time Turning for Dumbledore. He'd watched her comfortably tucked into a strange sitting room with McGonagall, going over Charms theorems. He'd watched her walking hand in hand with a dark-haired Frenchman, smiling at him with closed-off eyes. Facing Dumbledore, blushing wildly, having Occlumency drilled into her.

He'd felt her thrill attending a summer seminar in Salem, studying higher level Arithmancy, applying it to Potions. Her crushing realization that, while she was making great contributions to the study through a paper she was collaborating on, it wouldn't have her own name on it.

Then had come her time in Alexandria, which he'd thought had been quite pleasant. Compared to what he knew of Spain, it had been, but that wasn't saying much. She'd been there twice, the first time ending shortly after she'd been locked in a pyramid for days, pacing and drinking water from her wand. The second had been when she'd been whipped by the book. Her lover had been in the room with her, reading a different book, and though he'd been the one to burn her book and end the spell, he hadn't looked at her the same again after they'd healed her back. She hadn't resented him.

He'd watched her memories of Remy Bird. She'd been attacked multiple times in his house before she'd ever been thrown in a cage for the Muggle Fights. There had been a lethifold in her wardrobe and it had nearly killed her on her first night. The bearskin rug on her bedroom floor had tried to bite her feet off. She'd taken the attacks as challenges, training. She'd been vigilant and wary, and he'd dragged her out of the shower one morning by her hair anyway.

She'd been terrified in the Muggle Fights. She'd punched Draco Malfoy once, and that had been the extent of her physical fighting. He'd felt her desperation. Panic. Disgust. She'd used Occlumency to separate what she was doing from who she was. She'd begun each fight blank, and ended each fight on her knees beside another naked, dead body, mourning for the life she'd snuffed out to continue her own. He'd felt her anger burning hot as Remy stomped on her hand until the emotion faded away in the face of the pain.

He'd felt her emptiness the night she'd finally escaped. She'd had to kill a twelve year old boy in the afternoon fight, and it had hardened her resolve; she would escape or she would die. Her soul had been Occluded away to a back corner of her brain, pacing like a caged tiger, and the rest of her had been ruthless.

It was the same ruthlessness she practiced when Dumbledore sent her out to play the dragon. The same mindset she put herself into. She had protested when he gave her the first name, but he hadn't heard any of it, and she'd done what she was told. She'd cried and screamed after, releasing her soul back into herself. Severus could sympathize.

And then he'd felt what she felt when she was with him. The early memories, meeting him in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place when she'd brewed the Wolfsbane, were neutral. But the more recent ones, even when he was just standing behind her chair at meetings, were… more.

When Severus was seven or so, when the factory that employed most of the slum he'd been born into was beginning to go under, his father had changed. While he'd never been a happy man, he hadn't been bitter until he'd realized his job would be gone soon. It had been a miserable time, but not as miserable as the time to come.

"All the important men have jobs waiting at other factories," his father had said, sneering on 'important men' like they were a plague.

Up until then, Severus had thought his father was important. He was his father, after all. Fathers were the most important men in the world, especially to their sons. Even if they weren't very nice to their wives, they were still important. Most men weren't nice to women, in young Severus's experience, anyway.

Then the factory had gone under and everybody in the neighborhood had been out of a job. His father had found work here or there, sometimes being gone for weeks at a stretch working in a different town. Those weeks where he was gone had come to be treasured, since the time when he was home had quickly become miserable. Where Tobias Snape had been surly and mean—verbally abusive, the adult Severus knew to label it—he had become worse, drinking whenever he had money for it and often when he didn't, taking out real and imagined frustrations on his wife and son with his fists and belt—physically abusive.

Severus had a few cherished memories of visiting a festival with his father every summer when he was very small. His father's cousin was a musician at the festival, and the man, Hamish Freely, was their only living relative. His son, Fergus, was Severus's age. They called each other cousin and spent wonderful days running around the festival while their fathers did whatever they did.

They didn't stop going to the festival after the factory closed; it was still free. And Uncle Hamish bought the beer. Those summer afternoons with Fergus had been wonderful, almost as wonderful as the weeks where Tobias had been gone and Severus had been free to spend as much time at the park with Lily as he'd wanted.

The festival had remained with Severus and so had his father's comment about important men. He supposed it was one of many reasons he'd been Sorted into Slytherin, that drive to be important.

But "important" meant something different to him than it did to Lucius Malfoy. Lucius saw importance in politics and position; Severus, while he had ambitions, saw importance as he had as that boy in the slum. A father was an important man.

And that was what it boiled down to.

If he'd sat down to talk through his _feelings_ with Dumbledore, the only one who knew enough of his history to give him decent feedback, Lily would have come up. But, to be perfectly frank, his loyalty to Lily and Lily's son had stopped being about love a long time ago. Now it was guilt. Guilt over the prophecy, guilt over his inability to save her, even guilt about not being able to see past Harry Potter's resemblance to James.

He would take love over guilt any day. It would be wonderful to have something other than lingering guilt to fight for. Something _more_.

\\\

Two days before students would return, Severus gave up on getting any furthing planning done for the school year and Apparated to her flat in Edinburgh. He had his key in the lock before he thought to wonder if he should bring flowers or something. But that was a ludicrous idea.

"Oh, hello," she said when he entered, setting her breakfast dishes to cleaning themselves and kissing him hello. It was a novel experience; he grinned at her, which made her smirk.

"I've run away from the castle for the day," he said. "I refuse to think about the abysmal Defense teachers who have come before me for one more second."

"They were quite terrible. You'll have your work cut out for you with those poor first years."

"Second years now, and at least they won't have any bad habits to break them out of. They've never cast a defensive spell in their lives."

She made a somewhat amused noise and sat down at her piano in the living room. The sofa had been miniaturized to make room. She distractedly tapped out a few chords.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong," he asked, "or do I have to guess?"

"I'm just being stupid," she said. Her smile was more of a twitch of the lips before she went back to frowning at the keys of the piano.

"That must be quite the effort," he said, and she shot him a confused look. "You being stupid. It would take effort on your part."

Her smile was slightly more genuine. "Funny."

"What's wrong, Hermione?" He wanted to touch her face, and after a moment's hesitation he did. She leaned into the hand he put on her cheek, closing her eyes.

"I was being sad because I hadn't seen you in a few days."

"That is quite flattering," he said, smirking when she swatted at him. He'd made her smile.

They'd almost had an argument before they'd parted ways the other day. He'd been stupid enough to suggest that they should keep their distance.

"Severus, I want to fight about the stupid articles in _Potioneers Monthly_, and I want to hold your hand a Flourish and Blott's. I want morning kisses despite horrible breath, and I want you to get mad at me when I jinx the _Daily Porphet_ before you get to read it. I want you with me always so that I know that you aren't out there bleeding somewhere, and so that I can hear your little comments about the things that annoy you. I want your children, Severus. And I want your gray hair. And I way your jealousy, because I guarantee I will be jealous, too."

He'd held her hands—they were small, dainty, calloused from the way she held her wand and quill, and scarred too—and tried to put her off (because he was an idiot). "I can't have any of that. If I held your hand in public, we would both die sooner rather than later. If I put a child in you, I wouldn't live to see its face. I won't survive to have gray hair."

"But you want it."

"More than anything in the world."

And that had been that. They'd kissed. He'd conceded the point. She'd Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron to apparate to her flat so that she could change her clothes before she went to work. He'd pulled out a fresh set of teaching robes and headed to the Great Hall for the brunch meeting with the Board of Governors.

"I was afraid you might be thinking about avoiding me."

He brushed her mind with his own, and put a stray curl behind her ear. She closed her eyes again.

"You're right, then," he said. "You were being stupid." Her eyes shot open, and he smirked at her.

"Severus—"

He kissed her. He couldn't help it. It was like at the castle, their magic brushing together, their minds folded along all the same creases. He wanted her desperately, even more desperately than he wanted to save her from the pain that would come. He was selfish. Horribly, horribly selfish.

"We'll find a way," she said, and it was her use of 'we' that did it. He didn't want to be alone anymore. Not if he could be with her instead.

_We_.

She was so light. So small. He was an odd-looking man, all mismatched parts. He had a normal-sized head paired with a large nose, too-pale skin paired with the darkest hair and eyes; a tall and broad frame that should have had heavy muscles to go with it instead paired with wiry slimness from a troubled adulthood and not enough food as a child. She was perfection compared to him. She was slender and compact and round, delicate features, brown and honey hair, coffee with cream eyes.

Her kiss was Heaven. It was a haven.

He pulled her into his lap, or maybe she climbed there. He couldn't tell. He couldn't keep his own thoughts separate from hers, the sensations from his own body separate from the ones he felt through her. He knew that she was straddling him, though, grinding her hips down against his as he fucked her mouth with his tongue. Or maybe she was fucking his mouth with her tongue. Maybe it was both.

And where the hell had his coat gone? Was she even wearing a bra underneath that t-shirt?

_You're a horrible, selfish person_, he thought, but he said, "I love you."

The spot on her neck that had tasted so wonderful the other day was still red from his ministrations. That made him smile. He shifted to the other side and kissed her neck at the base, just above the collarbone. He sucked, lavved it with his tongue. Her skin, all of her, tasted so good.

He peeled her shirt off of her, dragging his hands across her back, up her sides, down her arms. Her back was textured from the scars, and the sensation of it under his hands was amazing. He wanted to map the scars; he wanted to kiss along the line of each one of them.

She was gasping. She finished unbuttoning his shirt—when had she removed his waistcoat?—and pushed it off him, running her hands along his chest and arms as he had done to her. He could feel the tingle of her touch glide across his skin, shooting down from the contact straight to his groin.

Hermione bent forward and licked one of his nipples, sucking the tiny, useless thing into her mouth hard. He gasped, biting the shoulder he'd been kissing. She jerked in his arms, her hips slamming down against his.

He scooped her up, not sure if he enjoyed the feel of her ass in his hands or the way she wrapped her legs around him better. He kissed her, and she bit at his lip. He'd been heading for the bedroom, for a proper bed, but he wasn't sure he would make it.

Then they slammed against the door. It didn't give, and his erection was squashed painfully between them. He hissed. She giggled, her hand leaving his shoulder to grope around behind her until she found the doorknob.

They stumbled through, and he kicked the door shut behind them.

He'd look around later, examine the room and think on the way the stuff in it reflected on the personality of the witch. What he was concerned about was the bed, and it was right there. Just a bed, not big or small. No four-poster with hangings like at Hogwarts, just a bed. The comforter was lightish blue, the sheets beneath plain white cotton.

Severus dropped her on the bed and furiously attacked the fastenings on his trousers. She flopped around on the bed for a split second, putting her limbs in order, and then she was helping him. His trousers slid down his legs, catching on his boots, and she made an annoyed noise.

He was strangely reminded that she'd killed men with her bare hands a moment later when she leveraged her weight—which was odd because she really didn't have any weight; he'd know, he'd just carried her in from the other room—and sat him on the edge of the bed with her between his knees. She shoved at his trousers, uncovering his boots, then made quick work of the buckles and laces.

Very quickly, he was sitting on the bed in his boxers, very obviously tented, with her between his legs. He couldn't breathe again. She teased her hands slowly up his thighs, kissed the soft flesh just below the line of his boxers, and then rubbed her hand along his cloth-covered length.

He moaned without dignity, filling his hands with fistfuls of the comforter to keep from grabbing her.

She pulled his underwear off him, ignoring his cock for the moment in favor of torture. She touched every inch of his legs as the boxers slid down, lifting one foot and then the other before tossing the boxers aside. And then he was naked on the bed, and she was on her knees again, and she was—

"Hermione!"

She dragged her tongue down the length of him, taking him in hand. She slid her hand roughly down and up, using the fingertips of her other hand to tease his balls. His hips bucked, and she smiled up at him. She kissed the base, a funny little chaste kiss, but then it wasn't so chaste. She smeared open-mouthed kisses up and down his length, her fingers finding his tip, fondling the weeping head.

His hips bucked. He might have called her name again, but he couldn't be sure. Their thoughts were pooling together again, and he could feel his own desire amplified by hers. He was sent spiraling into his own oblivious sensation when she took him in her mouth. Her mouth was warm and wet, her tongue flicking around his head and then he was in too deep for it. How could she even take it? He jerked when his cock hit the back of her throat, his hands tangling in her hair. She was smiling around his cock, her lips wrapped around the base.

Did the woman completely lack a gag reflex?

He didn't dwell on it. She was moving, sucking, sliding back only to take him in again. He guided her with his hands in her hair, pulling her head this way, changing the angle, thrusting his hips up to meet her face. She had her hands on his thighs, keeping him from pushing into her too hard.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

He was going to come. He was going to spill it all down her throat. _Fuck_.

She pulled away, releasing him with a satisfying popping sound. His hips jerked again, but he distracted himself from the sudden loss by yanking her up to him and kissing her hard. He could taste his own sweat in her mouth, on her tongue.

Hermione used the momentum from rising to kiss him to lay him back on the bed, and he gladly let her. She sat on his abdomen, rolling her hips back so that his erection pressed along the crack of her ass through her knickers.

They kissed. He rid her of her t-shirt, tossing it off the side of the bed and out of the way. She had beautiful, heavy, round breasts. She pressed them to his chest, and they both shivered. He wanted to taste them, wanted to pinch her nipples and then sooth them with his tongue.

He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her tight for a moment, and then spun them on the bed so that she was lying on the mattress below him. She grinned up at him, tangling her hands in his hair again and pulling him down for a kiss.

Pleasure rippled through him. Her fingers on his scalp. Her tongue in his mouth. Kissing her was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Her knickers were the only thing between them. The fabric was soft as he rubbed himself against it, his thrusts blocked. She arched, moaning in to his mouth, and he tore himself away to get rid of them. She'd teased him, taken such time to slide his boxers down his legs, but he didn't have the patience for it anymore.

Next time. Next time, he'd make her wait. He would tease her, bring her to the brink only to pull away and do it again. This time…

He dropped the knickers off the side of the bed and crushed her beneath him. He bent one of her knees up and pushed it out gently, opening her to him. She was slick and pink, glistening with wetness. He could smell her.

He groaned, dipping two fingers in, bringing his thumb down on her clitoris. She inhaled, not quite a gasp, then keened high and needy when he rubbed more forcefully. His hips twitched of their own accord. He brought the wet fingers to the tip of his cock, spreading her wetness around, then brought himself to her opening and used his fingers to spread her wide.

Severus's eyes locked with hers as he entered her. He tried to slide in gently, but he had very little control. He impaled her. He sunk in to the hilt, and her hips jerked. Her eyes rolled closed, and her other knee bent, rising to wrap around his hips.

He forgot to breathe. He pulled out and rammed in again, and again. He buried himself entirely each time, slamming into her. Sliding home.

She was wet and tight, letting out the most perfect mewing keens with each thrust. They were breathing in ragged time.

_Harder_. The thought was not his own, but he agreed whole-heartedly.

His balls were beginning to tighten, but he couldn't release yet. Not yet. It became his litany—push in, _not_, pull out, _yet_. In, not, out, yet, in, not, out, yet.

He shifted forward to taste her breast as he moved, and she screamed. He could feel her climax beginning around him. She was pushing back, matching his rhythm thrust for thrust, her quim beginning to convulse.

"Fuck," he moaned, releasing the nipple and biting down on the flesh beside it to muffle his own shout.

She came, her hands clenching his shoulders, dragging along his back. "Severus!" And then he came, too, and the world vanished completely for awhile. It was just Hermione, warm, welcoming Hermione. The wet cavern of her squeezing around him, pulsing, and he gave it to her. He gave her everything. He shuddered, releasing his seed deep and hot into the exact place it was supposed to go. Where it would go whenever she asked it of him, whenever she let him put it there.

"Oh, god," she cried. She was holding him to her, and it was the only thing that kept him from flying apart into a million pieces that nobody would ever be able to find.

He collapsed on her. She didn't seem to mind, though some vague part of his brain was telling him that he was going to squish her if he didn't move.

"I am a selfish man," he told her breasts. They were lovely breasts. Perfect. Just the right size for his hands, with nipples that were just the right size for his mouth. And the undersides of them were so soft. He rubbed his nose against the underside of one, feeling her stomach muscles tighten at the touch. It made him smile.

"What did you say?" Her hands were in his hair again, not clinging and tangling as before but stroking through it, fingertips tracing the lines of his skull against his scalp. It was nirvana.

"You are mine," he said, rising up, putting his knees on either side of her thighs and leaning on his elbows next to her head so that his face was directly above hers. Her eyes were dark with desire. She was flushed from their love-making. "I said I am a selfish man, and you are mine. I will have you, Hermione Granger. Until I am dead." She shuddered beneath him, and he could feel her warring with herself. He'd turned her on. She _liked _that he was claiming her as his, though some part of her was surely railing against it. She wasn't a submissive person; she wouldn't like the thought of belonging to him. Tough shit. "Every inch of you."

He set about exploring her with hands and lips and tongue. He kissed the lines of her face, across brows and cheekbones and jaw. Then down her neck, along her collarbones. He kissed the rounding of each shoulder, and the bend of each elbow. He sucked her fingers into his mouth and teased them with his tongue. He rolled her over and traced her scars as he'd wanted to, licking the valleys between the biggest of them, kissing along the line of the rest.

He discovered five scars from the Cruciatus, the little white whorls where the tip of the wand that cursed her had touched. He kissed each of them, even the one on the ball of her foot that was, in fact, two such scars layered on top of each other.

He traced her legs with his fingers, kissing and sucking on the inside of one knee until he realized he was leaving a love bite.

And then he found her quim. She was dripping for him.

He slid his fingers in, spreading her folds. Her clit was engorged, red and throbbing, just waiting to be licked. He did. She jerked beneath him, calling out to him, but he was going slowly. He would take his time. Even she would not rush him.

He buried his face in her, breathed her in, finally tasted her. He licked along her slit, ending at her clitoris, nuzzling his nose past it before brushing his tongue along it oh-so slowly. She was writhing. He pulled her legs up over his shoulders and settled in. This was his now; she was his. And it was wonderful.

He sucked, and she screamed her release. Fluid rushed to him, and he licked it up, swallowed it down, looked for more. He worked her clitoris with his mouth, and slid his fingers inside her. In, out. He had long fingers. He curled them, and there was that spongy spot, the goal. She gasped, beginning to keen again, beginning to moan. She didn't seem to have words, and that was all the better.

"Please," she finally gasped. "Please."

He twitched his fingers, sucked hard, and she exploded again. His witch.

When she was relaxed again, he crawled up to lie beside her. He was throbbing, so hard he might just explode without even touching her.

Hermione sighed. It was a deep, content sigh that soothed his heart.

"I love you," she said, rolling onto her side to look at him better, stroking his face with her hand. He wanted to turn his head, to catch her fingers in his lips again, but he was too tired. She smiled at him and he smiled back.

"I love you, too."

The hand on his face trailed feather-light down his chest, then settled on his cock. Her touch was gentle, almost as possessive as his had been. Luckily, she didn't make him wait the way he'd done to her. She ran her fingertips over him, just once down the length but he thought he might make a mess all over her hand. Then she shifted, rising over him, straddling his hips, her hand firm against him, guiding him back home.

He didn't even have to thrust, he simply slid in and came. She smirked, twitching her hips, rolling, grinding her pelvis into his as he released his load.

"Severus," she said, almost a question. He looked up at her. He was so tired, so happily exhausted. Utterly spent. "You're mine, too, you know."

"Mind, body and soul," he said, running his hands up her sides, pulling her down to him and tucking her against his chest.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

The damn had broken now. While part of her, locked away for the moment, ached because she knew it would end, the rest of her exalted in him. He was tall and broad and warm and real. He held her close. He looked at her with such intensity that…

She smiled at him across the table. They'd gone out to dinner, an old-fashioned date. They were at a wrought-iron table with a white table cloth on the courtyard patio of a little Muggle bistro, a candle flickering in the center of their table. Other couples sat at identical tables, making eyes at each other and talking quietly.

_Other couples_, she thought, smirking to herself. It was a ridiculous thought, them as a couple. Undeniable, but it felt strange. Yet there were two marvelously dark hickies on his neck and shoulder, and she'd put them there, and she was the only one who knew they were there since he'd covered them with a black button-up shirt.

"I love you," she told him quietly because she was a sentimental fool. His lips quirked up, but he was distracted. She could feel the guilt simmering in his thoughts, just beneath the surface. "I meant what I said earlier, you know."

"Which bit?"

He was guilty because he was going to die. He was guilty because he didn't care about it, he wanted her anyway.

"All of it," she replied. "But, specifically, the part about Flourish and Blott's, and since we can't go out in public—at least not in _our_ world—without risking everything, we're just going to have to win the war so that it can happen." He gave her a guarded look. To lighten the mood, she said, "And also, the part about morning kisses and horrible breath. That one can be fulfilled a little sooner, I think."

He looked at her for so long that she worried he was going to push her away, not just physically but everything. He would run for the greater good, and she would be miserable until he died, and then she'd be even more miserable. Instead, he smirked at long last, and reached across the table to take her hand in his. He lifted her captured hand to his lips and kissed it before putting it back next to her plate.

They sat there just looking at each other for a moment.

"I meant everything else, too, you know," she said. "I love you. We'll find a way."

"Hermione—"

"I want your jealousy. I want to fight with you, and I want brilliant make-up sex."

"Hermione."

"I want to make a go of it. Even if one or both of us end up dead. Even if we make each other miserable. I don't want 'what-ifs'. I want you and me, as often as possible, and sending stupid owls back and forth telling each other how much we miss each other."

"You don't want much, do you?"

"You said it yourself: all or nothing, no half measures. I choose 'all.' To be perfectly honest, the idea of 'nothing' makes me feel a little sick."

_Me too_. She smiled. His thought brushed into her mind with the feel of his peace. He was content, here with her.

"I love you, Severus." It was odd saying it. She hadn't realized she'd loved him at first. She'd known she liked him, and she'd known she found him attractive. Then there was the afternoon at the castle with him and Minerva, talking, before he'd even brought her to his rooms. And the feel of his mind within hers, helping him drop his shields and keeping him safe while he rebuilt. She knew him and she'd seen him, and he was absolutely wonderful. A good man hidden away behind a surly disguise.

_Mine. She's mine. How?_ She was fairly sure that thought hadn't been intentionally shared.

"I love you, too." He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. Their hands found each other on the table between them, and his thumb stroked her skin gently.

"And children, Severus. I _will _have your children."

"Only after the bastard's dead," he said vehemently.

"When the war is over," she agreed.

\\\

_So what do I do when I'm the one injured?_

Hermione stumbled through Grimmauld Place, not exactly surprised that it was empty. Harry was at the Burrow with the Weasleys since Sirius was dead, and mostly the Order hadn't moved back in entirely. And now she had her own knife sticking out of her ribs, and she could barely move, and there was nobody at Grimmauld to help her.

There was always St. Mungo's, but they would ask questions. A knife in the ribs was a pretty clear sign of something not on the level. She couldn't exactly claim a kitchen accident.

And she couldn't go to the Burrow; her younger self was there.

"Damn."

She shouldn't have stayed around to burn the place after she'd killed him. He'd got her knife in her just before he'd died, and she'd felt the blood well up and known better than to pull it out. Then she'd cast the Fiendfyre, burned the lot of it, and then she'd nearly passed out getting to headquarters.

The spinning of the Floo almost made her sick. It didn't usually do that.

"Please help," she said, stumbling out of the fireplace in the hospital wing at Hogwarts.

"Merlin's tits!"

Hermione passed out. When she came around again, she was staring at the familiar buttresses of the hospital wing ceiling. It was strangely comforting. Her wand sheath and wand were gone, which was discomforting, but it turned out they were just set on the bedside table.

Minerva was sitting in the visitor's chair, watching her nervously. Severus stood at the end of the bed, his hands braced on the foot, head hanging forward. He looked defeated.

_Severus?_ His head jerked up at her mental caress, and his body sagged as the tension left him.

_They were hoping you'd have to go to St. Mungo's. They wanted you tied up with suspicions._

_It almost worked._

"Hermione, child," Minerva said, standing and beginning to fuss over her, tucking and smoothing the blanket, patting at her hair. "How are you feeling?"

"I'll be fine," she said. She could feel the compression of bandages around her middle, which was good; better to let it heal slowly.

_Six hours ago, you were safe in my arms._ Severus was staring down at her, eyes too wide. She wanted to reach for him, to hug him to her, but the movement would hurt, and besides, what would Minerva say? While she surely wouldn't disapprove, she'd tell Dumbledore.

"What do you think you're doing?" Madam Pomfrey said sharply, approaching with the clack of her heels, scowling. It almost made Hermione smile. She'd spent so much time in the hospital wing, whether it was for her own injuries of that of her friends. Even if she looked so angry, it was so familiar that it was comforting. "Get back in bed this instant!"

"Madam Pomfrey—" Hermione began, swinging her legs out from under the blankets, but she was cut off.

"No! Absolutely not. You show up here, a bloody _knife_ sticking out of your liver, and you expect to walk away an hour later? I don't think so."

"I've had worse."

"Oh, I can see that," Madam Pomfrey growled. Hermione flushed, not sure why she was embarrassed. She realized that while she was still wearing her jeans and boots, she'd been stripped down to her bra. Sitting as she was, her back was on full display to Minerva, and the scars would be impossible to miss even with the bandages wrapped around her.

"Don't get up," Severus said when she began to shift her weight forward to get off the bed. Something in the timbre of his voice made her stop and look at him.

"What did you do?" she asked him, and he looked away.

And then she was in a nightmare. She knew it was a nightmare, but she couldn't wake up. They'd given her Dreamless Sleep, and that hadn't worked for years. It just kept her asleep.

She was in the Muggle Fights again. It was her first fight, only this time the giant of a man she'd been paired off against wasn't injured. He was almost seven feet tall, a brick wall of muscle. He was bald. In reality, she'd spent a good five minutes shuffling away from him trying to cover her nakedness and staring at his dangly bits, but in the dream they circled each other as she had learned to do by the end of her first week in the Fights.

They attacked each other. She bit him, scraped at him with her finger nails, aimed for his balls and his kidneys. He was too big, though. He slapped her around like she was nothing, slamming his fists into her. If it had been reality, a single blow from him would have knocked her out and it would have been over quickly, but in the dream she couldn't pass out. She endured.

She flailed, sliding out of his grip, and kicked his knee the wrong way. It didn't really slow him down, it just made him angry. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her in a half circle. The mass of her hair had always been a weakness in the Fights. She'd begged them to cut it off, but they hadn't listened. Of course they hadn't.

And then she was pinned beneath him, but he didn't have a good grip on her shoulders. She slipped the grip, twisting, throwing up her left fist to impact his jaw. She let herself continue slipping off the edge of the bed, her right hand going for the little knife she kept in her wand sheath, but neither knife nor sheath were there.

When she was behind him, she aimed for his knee. If the angle had been right, she could've kicked the joint the wrong way and kept him from following her, but the angle wasn't right and all her kick did was bend the knee. He fell on the bed, and she threw herself backwards over the next bed. She recovered her feet, bringing her arms up to fend off the next attack, calling her magic around her. She could feel it thrumming readily through the room, gliding comfortingly along her skin, making her hair stand up and spark.

And then his mind brushed hers, familiar and even more comforting than hers because it meant that she wasn't alone, wasn't back in the dirt "ring" of the Muggle Fights. The fight drained out of her in an instant, her magic pulling back in from its mad expansion around the room.

"I'm sorry," she said when she saw him. "I'm so sorry."

She climbed over the bed between them, suddenly aware of the soreness in her gut, the wet feeling of her wound bleeding again. She ignored it.

She'd smashed her fist into his face as hard as she could; she'd learned early that it was best for her to strike hard and fast then get out of the way and watch, plan her next attack. She threw a devastating punch. She was better with her right hand than with her left, but she'd gotten him in just the right spot and... His jaw was definitely broken, possibly dislocated, and teeth were loose.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, touching his face. He didn't flinch, but she figured that was because he was still stunned.

It was an easy injury to tend. Wandlessly and nonverbally, she put his jaw to rights, running her fingers along the bone to check the positioning. She had to stick her thumb in his mouth and physically press the teeth down into his gums before she charmed them back, but the only sign he gave of his discomfort was harsh breathing. She didn't get it quite right; his teeth had been crooked, and when she was done they were a bit straighter. She frowned. She was usually better at putting things back the way they had been.

Hermione wanted to hug him. She wanted his arms around her. They'd been "together"—if that was what they were—for less than a week, yet she'd already become strangely dependent on him. It was strange to want to share so much of herself and her life with somebody else.

"You've bled through your bandages," Minerva said. She was sitting just as she had been, beside the bed. Her hands were fisted tightly in her robes.

Looking away from them all, presenting Minerva with her scarred back again, Hermione unwound the bandages. The wound that remained after Madam Pomfrey's initial attentions was superficial, a little pucker with a large blackish scab in the middle of it. The skin around the scab was pink and irritated, bleeding freely around the edges.

"_What _are you doing? Why are you even up?" Madam Pomfrey asked, storming across the ward with a clack of heeled shoes. Hermione almost smiled.

"Dreamless Sleep hasn't worked properly on me in years," Hermione said. She carefully ignored Severus and Minerva. She didn't want to see if they pitied her, or if they were alarmed, or if they were avoiding her eyes as much as she was theirs. "I had a nightmare and thrashed around a bit. I must have opened this up."

"Lie back," Pomfrey ordered, putting a firm hand on her shoulder and pushing her down onto the bed. She Summoned a little vial of Essence of Dittany and used the dropper in the cap to apply three careful drops to the scab. The bleeding stopped immediately, the pinkness fading from around the scab. She felt instantly better. "You still need to rest."

"I can rest at home," Hermione said, suddenly desperate to be away. "I'm sure you have much to do, preparing for the students' arrival. I don't want to take up any more of your time than I have to."

"Don't be ridiculous," Pomfrey said, looking like she'd very much like to give Hermione more sleeping potions.

"Thank you so very much, Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said, finding her shirt on a nearby chair and putting it on carefully.

"At least let me get you a new bandage." The mediwitch didn't pause long enough for Hermione to reply, stepping away quickly and returning with a patch of gauze and a roll of medical tape. "Hold still."

_Yes, ma'am_, Hermione thought, exchanging half a smile with Severus.

"I wish you would stay here overnight," Minerva said, sitting up a little straighter. "We should have a look at the blade, at least. How do we know it wasn't cursed?"

"Minerva," Hermione said, and she might as well have called her 'mother' for the tone of it. It was a strange thing to cross her mind, Minerva as a surrogate mother. _Why now? Why would I think of that connection now, but not when I spent that whole summer with her? It's been years since we spent any real time together._ Hermione cleared her throat. "It was my own blade; it isn't cursed."

"Your own blade?" Pomfrey asked, putting the last piece of tape in place more forcefully than necessarily. "I thought you were a Healer."

"I am."

"Healers don't carry blades like _that_," Pomfrey said. Hermione couldn't meet her eyes, because she was right.

"I know."

\\\

Later, Hermione sat with Severus in his quarters. She'd told Minerva and Pomfrey she was returning to her flat, but Severus had caught up to her before she'd made the entrance hall and rerouted her to his rooms.

He'd sat down in his usual wingback, and she'd draped herself across his lap with her legs off one side. She was too tired to do anything, and the wound in her gut ached even if it was almost fully healed. He didn't seem to mind her thorough invasion of his space, though. He was holding her close, one hand wrapped around her waist, the other trailing absently up and down the length of her thigh.

"You saw?" she asked, but it wasn't really a question so much as a prompt. Of course he'd seen.

"Yes."

She considered pinching him, but he kept talking before she'd made up her mind.

"There were six of us sent to watch. He wanted to know how you operate. If they were dead before they were burned. He knew you were coming, which is why he gave you so much trouble."

"Oh."

"God, is this what you feel like every time I come back?" He shuddered beneath her. She stroked his cheek, smiling. "I know you're going to be fine, I've seen for myself that you're healing, but I still can't…"

"Not every time," she said, shifting in his lap so that her lips were against his neck.

"It's awful."

"Yes."

They sat together in silence for awhile. She listened to the fire crackle and enjoyed the feel of his arms and chest surrounding her. There was something extremely gratifying in the fact that he'd watched her kill a man today, and she'd broken his jaw with her fist only hours later, and he was still concerned about her, still wanted to hold her close and never let her go.

_It is perfectly ridiculous._

_What is?_

_This._

_What?_

_I love you, and it is ridiculous how happy it makes me to sit here in your lap._

_I'm rather pleased with the arrangement, myself._

* * *

**AN: I feel like I should apologize for all the sentimental tripe that crops up whenever I write them alone together in the last few chapters. It feels a bit like a broken record (a third of each new chapter rehashing that they're finally together and neither of them can quite believe their luck), and I promise to get on with it. More plot-furthering stuff in the upcoming chapters, less moony internal monologue, I swear.**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Severus glared at the class from his desk. Sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins, _her _class. It was the most difficult class to teach simply because she was in it. It helped that Potter was there, looking and acting so much like his father. But she was always there, too, distracting him.

He'd last seen Hermione, the real Hermione, the day before the students arrived. She'd sat on his lap in his reading chair, and they'd held each other. She'd told him she loved him, and he'd maneuvered so that she was looking into his eyes so that he could show her just how much he reciprocated. It was easier and easier to brush minds, to share thoughts and emotions without more than a wisp of effort.

Really, the hard part wasn't having her in the room, it was having her there and pretending like she wasn't the reason he put up with the rest of the world. He was careful not to look at her more than he had to, careful not to touch her, careful not to reach out for her mind. It almost hurt when he noticed her unscarred hands, or remembered that this Hermione had smooth skin on her back and absolutely no experience with Healing.

So he was as irascible as ever, and he wrote her a letter at the end of each day detailing all the annoying things her younger self had done (like looked moonily at Weasley, or turned in an essay three full inches over the required length). She wrote him a letter back, and it came each morning with the rest of his post. He usually kept the day's letter in his inner pocket, savoring the words in his office between breakfast and his first class, and then touching the parchment like a talisman over the course of the day.

He was trying not to consciously count down to the break for Christmas. He didn't know what would happen after that—would Hermione Granger simply not return to Hogwarts? What would they tell Potter?—but it would put an end to the slow torture of looking without touching.

* * *

Hermione had forgotten about Katie Bell entirely. She would probably feel bad about that when she had time to think about it, but she hadn't had time yet. She'd spent Friday and Saturday at St. Mungo's. The water had been poisoned at a Muggle office building; two people had died before the Ministry realized it was potion-based. Hermione's contact at the hospital had asked if she'd be able to help out, and Dumbledore wanted her to maintain and expand her contacts at St. Mungo's so she'd gone.

Exhausted, smelling of the cauldrons she'd been bending over and the grease she'd put in her hair, Hermione had happened upon him in the lobby.

"Hello."

He hadn't said anything, just put his hand on her shoulder like he wasn't sure she was a hallucination or not. Then he ran his hand down her arm to her hand, laced his fingers with hers, and squeezed gently. It was a tender gesture, and it made her smile even though she was tired enough to fall asleep on one of the uncomfortable waiting room couches.

"You've come about Miss Bell, then?"

"Miss Bell? Oh. You mean Katie? Katie Bell?"

"Yes." He looked as tired as she felt, but he hid it better. He was so pale when he was well that it was easy to miss the washed-out look to him.

"I'd forgotten about that, actually."

"Is that good news, then? She recovers?"

"Yes. I was told—or I will be told, in about a week I think—that you stabilized her, prevented the curse from spreading. She'll be here for a long time, past Christmas. The rumors that reached me were all good, though."

He was silent a moment, then nodded. Some of the tension eased out of his shoulders, but not much. "What are you here for then?"

"That office poisoning."

They walked out of the waiting room, carefully separate. He walked just barely close enough so that his teaching robes, unclasped across the front after his long afternoon fighting Dark magic, swished against her ankle every few steps.

"That wasn't Death Eaters, actually," he said conversationally, quietly enough that the people waiting couldn't hear. "Some jealous witch married to a Muggle. Trying to poison a mistress, I believe; not realizing the diuretic she chose can be fatal in Muggles. The Dark Lord arranged for Wormtail to send her a fruit basket."

"A fruit basket."

"Sometimes I can't tell if he's trying to be funny, or if he's read some old Pureblood manual on etiquette that I haven't."

"They have manuals for that sort of thing?"

"Oh yes. There are _volumes_ of them."

"I would've thought I'd've seen some form of them in the Black library."

"I believe Black burned them upon his return, shortly after offering up the house as headquarters. One by one and in front of his mother's portrait."

Hermione actually laughed at that, drawing a few curious looks that turned into alarmed looks when they saw who had made her laugh. She quieted herself quickly, looking down at the floor and putting her hands in her pockets so that she couldn't reach over to touch him.

Finally, they reached the side hall leading down to the Apparation room. There were chairs up and down the hall, spillover area for whenever something really bad happened and families swarmed the waiting rooms. They sat in the two chairs closest to the door to the Apparation room on the left side. They weren't comfortable chairs. They came three to a pod and were bolted to the wall, stiff wooden armrests there more to demarcate personal space than for resting arms. In the chairs, Hermione and Severus were so close that their legs touched.

"How are you?" Hermione asked, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and staring down at her feet.

"Not unwell."

"That's a crap answer, Sev." Hermione turned her head to give him a teasing look, but the teasing fell away the moment she made eye contact and he pressed his thoughts and emotions over to her. He was coming apart at the seams.

_I don't want to die_, he thought. And, _Draco Malfoy is going to get himself killed._

She'd forgotten that Malfoy was his godson, that there was real affection there, not just the drive from his Unbreakable Vow. Faded, maybe, since he could be such a turd of a teenager, but a connection nonetheless. That memory of the nursery at Malfoy Manor came to mind, a younger Severus laying on a blanket with a blond toddler.

"Do you know what he was hoping to be before…" Severus indicated his Dark Mark by scratching at it ruthlessly through the sleeve of his robes.

"We didn't exactly swap aspirations, Severus."

"A Healer." He looked away, left hand clenched in a fist while his right hand spastically smoothed the fabric of his sleeve where he'd been scratching. "He wanted to go to France like you did, because it's the best program in Europe. And he wanted to stay there. He wanted to get away from all this, and help people."

Hermione had no idea what to say. She reached for his hand, but jerked away when the door of the Apparation room opened and a wizard with indigo skin and bubbles coming out of his left ear hurried toward the lobby.

They sat there for twenty minutes like guilty children caught out snogging after curfew, now waiting outside their Head of House's office to get a talking to.

\\\

It was terribly ironic, several weeks later, when she received an invitation to Slughorn's annual Christmas party. Thinking of the year before made her smile—both because she'd charmed the gingerbread men to shout, and because she and Severus had been so obviously dancing around each other. This year's party would be at Hogwarts, though, and her younger self would be in attendance.

The night of the party, she found herself sitting at her kitchen table looking at the trunk she'd brought from her office, all the research and charts she'd had there shrunk down to fit in the single box. The flat around her was similarly strange, all her knick-knacks and photographs packed away into her satchel leaving only the bones of what had been her home for a time. Whatever Dumbledore's plans were for her after her younger self first Turned back the summer, he hadn't seen fit to share them with her (beyond a desire for her to pack up her things and "be ready," of course).

She'd taken a nap late in the afternoon, half hoping she'd sleep through the party. Instead, she'd had a strange dream about Severus putting McLaggen in detention for the rest of the year because of his overly enthusiastic efforts beneath the mistletoe.

Green dress robes this year, forest green linen heavy with pleating in the skirts. A golden cream-white dress beneath, the bodice of the green robe mostly open across the front to show off the tiny pleats across her breasts to match the folds in the skirts. The pair of them made a simple, elegant ensemble. She put her hair in a loose French braid, letting the curls soften the updo and putting in just enough Sleakeasy so that the curls that escaped the braid to flutter around her face and neck were more delicate ringlets than frizzy corkscrews.

_Yesterday I killed a man_, she thought, wrapping herself in her nicer winter cloak and checking her lipstick one last time. _Today I'm all dressed up like a girly-girl. What the fuck is this life?_

At the gates of Hogwarts, a very bored trio of fourth years leapt to attention at the sound of her Apparation. The boy—and for the life of her she couldn't remember his name, though she was fairly sure he was a Gryffindor—beat the others to her, and thus she followed the red blush on the back of his neck through the familiar halls to Slughorn's office.

The place had been Expanded within an inch of its life. The strain of it would've shown in the washed-out coloring of the walls and floor, but nobody was looking at the floor and the walls had been covered by emerald, crimson and gold hangings; it was reminiscent of a harem tent. At the center of the ceiling hung an ornate golden lamp with real faeiries fluttering about it.

Despite the Expansion, the room was crowded and stuffy. The far corner held a wizard dressed like a medieval bard, playing a mandolin and singing, constantly tossing his head to get the enormous feather on his hat out of his face. There was a haze of pipe smoke in another corner surrounding several elderly warlocks deep in conversation. House elves bearing silver platters of food looked like little roving tables as they made their way through the crowd.

There were too many people. It was probably around the same number as had been in attendance the year before, but they'd had a whole house and yard to spread out in before.

Hermione itched to have her wand in her hand and her back against a wall.

"Samantha, my dear!" Slughorn cried, reaching for her and beaming. It was only habit that kept her from flinching. "You look more lovely each time I see you." He bowed formally over her hand, and she couldn't tell if he was mocking her or not.

"This is a beautiful room."

Slughorn laughed good-naturedly, though there was a touch of stiffness in his cheeks. "It's nothing compared to last year, as I'm sure you remember," he said wistfully. "Alas, there simply wasn't room for ice sculptures. I tried to convince Albus to lend me the Great Hall, you know. We could've made a proper showing there. That ceiling…"

Hermione surprised herself by laughing outright. Slughorn smiled at her winningly.

"Enchanting, my dear. Enchanting."

She resisted the urge to wipe the hand he'd clasped on the skirt of her dress robes. Luckily—for her at least—Harry and Luna made their entrance seconds later.

"Harry, m'boy!" Slughorn cried, and hurtled off toward the door. "Come in, come in, so many people I'd like you to meet!"

Hermione helped herself to a glass of bubbly and circulated. She knew a handful of those present by name and most of the rest by sight—wizarding Britain wasn't _that_ big. Severus found her when she was in the middle of an amicable discussion of ashwinder eggs with a client from the apothecary. She couldn't for the life of her remember his name and she'd been hoping he would introduce himself to Severus, but he didn't.

"Hello, Professor!" the wizard said, the greeting coming out half a squeak. Hermione turned to look at Severus over her shoulder and found his full focus on the other wizard, his eyes cold enough to frost over a phoenix. "I—I—Well, it was nice catching up, Barnes. Really must be going now. Going over there, that is. Not leaving, of course. I think I've just seen someone I know…"

He dashed off. Hermione turned around so she could look at Severus properly, though he wasn't looking at her. He was half turned away from her, looking over the crowd like he was waiting for some threat to appear.

Of course, he might just be intimidating the hell out of anybody who had had half a mind to come over and chat with them.

"What the hell, Severus?" He had a hand on her waist, lovely and warm, but that was all the attention he paid her. His focus was elsewhere.

Hermione huffed and shifted so that she could see around him, following his line of sight. Then she blushed, embarrassed for her younger self.

She watched as the girl with the long mane of brown hair smiled sheepishly at Cormac McLaggen and dashed off. McLaggen smiled like the cat that got the cream after her, then sauntered over to a nearby house elf and helped himself to a pasty. The younger Hermione met up with Harry and Luna and disappeared into the crowd before Severus turned back to her.

She noticed that he was wearing his standard teaching robes, as if he'd only attended the party under duress. They were clean and pressed, and he wore starched white linen under his coat. He looked very dour in them, especially with the way he scowled down at her.

"What on earth is the matter?" she whispered, taking him by the elbow and drawing him back toward the nearest wall. A clever fold of the crimson drapery nearby gave them a suggestion of privacy.

"Nothing." The word was clipped, and obviously a lie.

"Uh-huh," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "Severus, you're acting very odd."

He glared at her, his hand flexing against her hip. She'd forgotten it was there, as accustomed to his touch as she was. It made her smile, but it also reminded her that they were in a public place, at _Hogwarts_, and they could be seen. She didn't know what Dumbledore was planning, but it might be common knowledge soon that Sam Barnes was Hermione Granger.

"Somebody will see us," she said quietly, her fingers on the wrist of the hand he had on her waist. He pulled the hand back like he'd been burned, then spun away and disappeared into the crowd.

Alone in the crimson alcove, it was suddenly quite plain that he'd been acting jealous. Jealous of McLaggen? The boy had barely gotten a few kisses out of her, and they'd been horrible kisses at that. Jealous of the man whose name she still couldn't remember? They'd only been talking.

The thought of it—the theory of Severus Snape feeling possessive of her—chased hot and cold through her veins. She thought of faceless Marcella, how the very idea of another witch even _thinking_ she'd had sex with Severus set her magic tingling dangerously over her skin. That Severus felt the same way about her, even if it was the younger her getting snogged uncomfortably under the mistletoe, made her want to smile like an idiot and do something stupid like catch _him_ under the mistletoe. (Preferably out where everybody could see them and know that she was the one who got to snog Severus Snape whenever she wanted.)

She followed Severus into the crowd, intent on dragging him out into the hall for a long… chat. Unfortunately, Slughorn had his arm around Severus's shoulders, trapping him into conversation with Harry, Trelawney, Luna and her younger self.

"I don't think you should be an Auror, Harry," Luna said as Hermione walked past. "The Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, I thought everyone knew that. They're working to bring down the Ministry of Magic from within using a combination of Dark Magic and gum disease."

Harry coughed and laughed, half his drink going up his nose. Her younger self looked embarrassed to be there. Slughorn looked flummoxed. Trelawney didn't look like she'd really heard any of it. Severus was looking at her over Harry's shoulder, eyes dark.

She brushed his mind with hers, the usual warm greeting, but there wasn't a chance to apologize for offending him when she reminded him not to touch her in public. Argus Filch dragged Draco Malfoy into the party by the ear, showing all the tact of a niffler after a diamond nipple ring.

"Professor Slughorn," wheezed Filch, practically quivering with his own excitement. "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?"

Malfoy jerked out of Filch's grip, furious.

"All right, I wasn't invited! I was trying to gate-crash, happy?"

Hermione glanced at Severus, meeting his eyes with the mutual understanding that Malfoy had been attempting no such thing. Not only was his pride above such a thing (especially considering that he would have been invited if his father hadn't fallen so far in society the previous summer), but it was far more likely that he'd been trying to take advantage of the party as a distraction so that he could work out another clever way to kill Albus Dumbledore.

"No, I'm not!" Filch said, though his face was gleeful. They were making quite a spectacle, the crowd stopping ther conversations to watch. Even the mandolin player had stopped the music to crane his neck for a look, that ridiculous feather in his hat arching away from his head like a quill stuck in an inkpot. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the headmaster say that nighttime prowling's out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?"

Hermione hadn't remembered Filch being quite so… sad. He'd been a boogey-man of the halls, crusty and ever-present. This man, taking this much pleasure in a child's misfortune when there were such bigger things afoot…

"That's all right, Argus, that's all right," Slughorn said, waving a hand. "It's Christmas, and it's not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we'll forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco."

Filch looked outraged, disappointed. Malfoy looked almost as unhappy.

_Definitely Up To Something, then,_ Hermione thought.

Malfoy glanced at Severus, looking nervous. Severus obviously caught the undercurrent, because his expression went perfectly blank as his Occlumency shields came up to protect his thoughts while he guessed at Malfoiy's motives.

"It's nothing, it's nothing," Slughorn was saying. Very magnanimous. "I did know your grandfather, after all…"

_What an utter pillock. You knew his father too, idiot. Only now he's out of favor, so he doesn't exist, right? _

"He always spoke very highly of you sir," Malfoy said, the ingrained manners of a Pureblood heir snapping into place. "Said you were the best potion-maker he'd ever known…"

The poor boy didn't look well at all. He obviously hadn't slept, at least not well. There were dark smudges under his eyes and a grayish tinge to his skin. His hair wasn't perfectly greased back as it had once been. His robes were neat as always, but his tie was loose. There was a painfully familiar panicked look at the back of his eyes.

_Good God, I'm feeling sorry for Draco Malfoy._

"I'd like a word with you, Draco," Severus said, interrupting.

"Oh, now, Severus," said Slughorn, hiccupping, "it's Christmas, don't be too hard—"

"I'm his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be," Severus said curtly. Hermione wondered if there had been much tension over that—Slughorn had been Severus's Head of House, after all. (And he'd done a piss-poor job of it, too.) "Follow me, Draco."

Severus and Malfoy left, and Harry, of course, followed them.

Not ten minutes later, Severus was back. He walked in, spotted her, and made his way through the crowd to her. A tumbler of something appeared in his hand between the door and her spot near the Christmas tree decorated in shiny red bulbs and more live faeries.

"There's no getting through to that boy," he said sulkily, swallowing down half his drink and blinking hard when it made his eyes water.

"In my experience, he was always that way," Hermione said neutrally. Severus almost smirked.

"He claims he had nothing to do with the Bell girl's attack. And he's been learning Occlumency from his dear Aunt Bellatrix."

"He looks awful."

"He can be a snide little thing, but I don't believe there's murder in him." They went quiet, not because there was anybody close enough to overhear them but because they both wished they didn't have murder in _them_. "He hasn't been pushed that far. Yet."

"He won't be. You'll be there for him."

She wished, suddenly, that somebody had been there for her. There was her younger self, just across the room, standing with McLaggen again but now carefully keeping at least three other people with them so that he wouldn't try to drag her off to the mistletoe again. It was such a _thing_—her greatest worry of the night dealing with a handsy date. She hadn't been asked to leave her life behind yet, hadn't been asked to kill anybody yet. She wished she'd had somebody to step in for her just after that Christmas, when Dumbledore had presented this great adventure to her.

Hermione set her wine glass aside and turned to look at Severus. His face was shuttered, as it had been since he'd returned from the hall. "Can we leave?" she asked him. He looked down at her for a moment, almost confused, but then he just nodded and finished his drink before setting the glass aside.

They left, this time not bothering to make a circuit of the room to say goodbye to the proper people. Hermione merely collected her cloak and they slipped out the door.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

Only three students had elected to remain at the castle over the holiday, all of them Hufflepuffs. On Christmas Eve, the students were treated to a special dinner in their common room, and the staff had a gathering in the staff room. They ate and drank and made merry, and Severus got a headache.

These little gatherings had a way of reminding him that he had friends in his colleagues. They were too busy to spend time together regularly, and they were often at odds over something or another, but they were his friends nonetheless. Filius Flitwick was always good for a game of chess. Pomona Sprout was probably his closest friend at the school other than Minerva, considering they coordinated regularly where plants as potions ingredients were concerned (and she'd been the one professor when he was a boy who hadn't seemed to mind that he was an ugly little outcast, and had gone out of her way to pat him on the shoulder whenever she saw him; it was a small thing, but it had meant the world). Sinistra didn't like him, but she was polite, and she was downright hilarious when she was drunk. Hooch was forever making a pass at him, which had been awkward in the beginning but was now a running joke; she even trusted him to referee Quidditch matches when she was indisposed. Pince hated him in a sulky kind of way because he had a habit of writing in books. He got on well with Vector, though he'd developed a strange jealousy in the past months when he'd realized that the young Hermione spent large chunks of time in the Arithmancy professor's office playing the protégé. And then there was Hagrid, of course; the gentle half-giant always seemed too cheerful, and he trusted him on faith in Dumbledore, which had begun to hurt.

After Filius had thoroughly trounced him for the second time that night, Severus's queen solidly refused another match under his direction. Minerva howled with laughter, switching him out. Severus watched for a bit, distractedly discussing an article _Arithmancer's Quarterly _that Hermione had told him about with Vector.

"And what else did _she _say about that little article?" Hooch asked from the other side of Vector, bringing Severus up short. _She?_

"I beg your pardon?"

"You just said you hadn't read the article yourself, but she told you—something about quadratics," Hooch said, waving a hand as if to dissipate the unfamiliar term. Severus's smirk came out more of a sneer.

"I do talk to people, you know," he said evasively. _Make something up_, his brain screamed, but his mouth couldn't seem to catch up. He felt blind-sided, but he couldn't think why. It wasn't like the relationship was inappropriate, not really. Dumbledore wouldn't like it much, but not in a professional capacity. _No_, he sneered to himself. _Not in a professional capacity, but in the way that it isn't fitting to have your spy and your assassin sharing confidences, let alone sleeping together._

"Yes," Vector said, her tone almost teasing.

"Just not usually of the 'she' variety," Hooch said, grinning. Almost leering. Severus rolled his eyes.

"_You _are a 'she' and I talk to you regularly," Severus said. "As are you, Septima. And Minerva."

Vector's eyes danced with amusement. Hooch continued to grin, turning her head and shoulders around as she searched the room.

"Where's Poppy?" Hooch asked when her quarry wasn't immediately spotted. "She's the one who knows everything. Poppy! Who's Snape sleeping with these days? He's bloody cheating on me, the bastard."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. It was nights like this one that would make what was coming so difficult.

Vector returned to their academic discussion once Hooch was gone. She was quickly going on about a theorem that was well past his skill. He could work out substitutions and amendments to potions formulas just fine, but it had been years, decades, since he'd really worked through the theoretical stuff.

Poppy found him a bit later, smirking at him, and asking what Hooch was on about.

"I'm sure I don't know," he said testily. "She was a bit in her cups."

Poppy laughed gaily. They were joined after a few minutes by Pomona and got to talking about mandrakes, of all things. It was a very pleasant way to spend an hour.

He was the first to leave the gathering; he almost always was. Slughorn had started trying to talk to him, and Severus didn't want anything to do with his old Head of House. The man hadn't cared a lick for him when he was a student, when he was supposed to be the one looking out for him and standing up for him. Now that he was interesting—the youngest Potions Master in an age, and holding a position of "influence" near Dumbledore to boot—the idiot wanted to pretend like they'd been the best of friends once upon a time. It left a sour taste in Severus's mouth.

That sour taste vanished immediately when he made his private sitting room and found Hermione curled up on the sofa, _Ars Alchemica _open on her lap. She wore a deep maroon robe with subtle black embroidery, covered from wrist to clavicle. The robe had tiny black buttons down the front, stopping mid-thigh like all the robes she favored, leaving the skirts of the robe to gap open around her legs and show the long gray skirt she had on beneath. Her boots were tucked neatly under the side table next to the couch.

He brushed her mind with his in greeting, closing his eyes and breathing deeply when she brushed his in return. He'd missed it. He'd missed it so much. All the letters in the world couldn't make up for that single moment of mental contact.

"Hello," he said when the ache of relief had subsided. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She hadn't moved, but she was looking at him now instead of the text.

"Hello," she returned. She wasn't smiling, but he could _feel _the grin in her very presence. She was happy here, in this room, with him. The ache came back, but it was different.

_I've missed you_. He couldn't quite say it out loud, but that wasn't the only way he could communicate with her. She smiled.

"I've missed you, too."

She stood and crossed to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head against his chest. She was so small. It surprised him every time. She had a presence, a sheer force to her that made her seem bigger. The sixth year in his classes had reached her full height already, and the woman in his arms came up to his chin. It was the perfect height for resting her head against him so that he could put his chin on the top of her head and hold her. They fit together like they'd been made for it.

"How long can you stay?" _Does Dumbledore know you're here?_

"How about forever?"

"That would be agreeable."

She smirked against his neck; he could feel her teeth. He moved away and put a finger under her chin to tip her lips up to his. The kiss was long and slow, as if they had all the time in the world. But they didn't.

"And no, to answer that last bit," she said when they finally broke apart to breathe. "Dumbledore doesn't know I'm here."

He smirked, pulling her closer and kissing her temple. "That means he won't come looking for you."

"Precisely."

They stayed in the doorway for a bit longer, holding each other. It was really quite silly, as she'd said before when they'd sat in the reading chair for such a long time just holding on. He'd never known a relationship, sexual or otherwise, that had involved quite this much drive to simply touch. It was almost a separate thing from the need to bury himself in her, to rise over her and slide home and make her keen. He needed to hold her, too. To wrap her up and never let her go, and always know that she wasn't sad or hurt. To cherish her.

"It's Christmas, Severus," she said after a long time. "Take me to bed?"

Slowly, he moved his hands down from where they'd been wrapped around her ribs holding her close, mapping the familiar lines of her waist, cupping around her ass, gripping, lifting. She pulled her skirt up out of the way with one hand so that she could wrap her legs around his waist, and the other hand held tight to his shoulder. He couldn't decide if he enjoyed the feel of her ass in his hands or her quim pressed to his cock through the layers of their clothes better.

Hermione leaned down and kissed him as he carried her to the bedroom. A deep, open-mouthed kiss full of promise.

Gods, but he loved this woman.

\\\

Severus had never had pleasant Christmas mornings when he was a child. Even before the mill closed, his parents hadn't had much money. He usually got a new pair of shoes and, if he was lucky, a comic book. There had been a few very strange Christmases spent at Malfoy Manor when he was being recruited to the Death Eaters, showered with gifts. Those memories had gone bitter with time.

At Hogwarts, Christmases were always pleasant but tinged with loneliness. Most professors had come to the school after living their lives. Their children visited at Christmas, or they went visiting, seeing friends if they didn't have family. Severus had no friends outside the walls of Hogwarts, not really, and he had no family at all. His Christmas morning was spent alone, opening the perfunctory gifts—some better than perfunctory, of course, but mostly they were just a courtesy—in his sitting room alone, wiling away the time until Christmas dinner in the Great Hall, then back to life as usual.

Waking with Hermione tucked against his chest, every inch of her molded to every inch of him, was a pleasant change of pace. He looked down at her, his arm tightening around her of its own accord. She smiled in her sleep, nestling her head more comfortably against him.

He let himself drift between waking and sleeping, waiting for her. It was still quite early. Sometime around six, Hermione stretched, the movement sliding her flesh against his in the most delightful way. She rolled so that she was laying half on him, crossing her arms over his chest and putting her chin on her arms. Her breasts were pressed to his chest; he could feel her nipples hardening against him just as surely as she would feel his cock hardening against her thigh.

"Good morning," she said, smiling at him like the cat that got the canary. He smiled back.

"Good morning."

She shifted ever so slightly, moving so that her legs were on either side of his, and he was pressed into her. He gasped, his arm tightening around her again, his other hand finding the place where they were almost connected and making adjustments, opening her folds so that he could slide in properly. His thumb found her clitoris and he rubbed a gentle circle. She was still lazily sprawled on his chest, her arms crossed; her eyes dropped closed and she practically purred.

He removed his hand, bringing his wet thumb to his lips and sucking it clean. She watched him with dark eyes, her hips beginning to twitch against his. He didn't think he could stand the teasing anymore, even if he'd been the one to start it.

Severus held her head, bringing her lips to his, and used the grip he still had around her waist to keep her close as he rolled them. She moaned against his mouth as they shifted together, as he shifted inside of her. He couldn't seem to get enough air, but that didn't stop him from kissing her.

She bent her knees, anchoring her feet on the mattress as he began to thrust. He braced himself with arms on either side of her head, driving into her. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard thumping against the wall in time with their movements.

Hermione was shouting affirmations—"Yes, yes, yes!"—with each thrust, her hips rising to meet his, her fingernails digging into the skin on his back over his ribs. He was grunting in an embarrassingly animalistic way, but she didn't seem to mind so neither did he.

"Oh," he said at last, more of a groan than a word, and he released. Suddenly boneless, he collapsed on top of her, shoving himself further up and into her. She clenched around him, her body milking his as she screamed her climax.

"Jesus Christ, Severus," she whispered, running her fingers through his hair. He bit her neck gently, then kissed the same spot. He turned his head, licking and kissing his way up the other side of her neck, across her jaw, finally finding her mouth.

It was quite awhile before they finally made their way to his sitting room. He had his dressing gown, and she'd picked up his shirt from yesterday off the floor by the bed. It was too big for her, but she'd rolled the sleeves up and didn't seem bothered by the way it hung loose around her. Or the way it didn't cover a thing when she bent over to stoke the fire up in the cool room.

He had to look away. He wanted to stand behind her, to pull her ass against him and rut like dogs. He had to look away not because he was ashamed, but because she would approve of the action and then they'd never get anything done with the day.

When she turned around she was smirking, and he knew that she'd caught what he was thinking. Or possibly she'd had the same idea all on her own.

"Happy Christmas, Severus," she said, going up on her toes to peck him on the lips. She pressed her hands to his chest for balance, and he took them in his own, twining their fingers, leaning into her kiss, deepening it while carefully keeping himself from pressing their bodies together.

"Happy Christmas, Hermione," he said when they broke apart. Her lips were swollen from the kiss, her eyes dark.

He didn't have a Christmas tree in his quarters; he never had. His gifts were arranged in a little stack on his desk, with three packages off on the corner. His chest constricted a bit at that—Hermione Granger, Gryffindor golden girl, had even fewer presents at Christmas than the bat of the dungeons. How had it been all those years, Turning back to before her friends knew her, spending the holidays alone?

Hermione didn't seem fazed by it. She picked up the package from Dumbledore, and neither of them were surprised when it was a book. A big, thick thing with an ancient cracked-leather cover. She settled on the couch and began flipping through it as he unwrapped his gifts at his desk.

Sprout sent the usual basket of prized ingredients from her greenhouses. Minerva's gift was a tasteful jumper, incredibly soft and charmed to be warm without being overly hot, but in an unfortunately garish crimson. Dumbledore had gotten him an enormous mix basket from Honeydukes, and a small blank journal with a cerulean cover. Hooch had given him a year's subscription to the Holyhead Harpies newsletter and the team's calendar (the sort to be hung on the wall, with a picture of the team for each month and all the games and open practices marked). Filius's gift was a set of glass vials, charmed unbreakable, and a soft felt bandolier to carry them in. Slughorn had gifted him a bottle of rum with a bow on the neck. Vector had gotten him a subscription to _The Potioneer_ and written him a nice card. The Malfoys had sent a prized bottle of elf-made wine.

Underneath all the usual gifts was a flat dossier with the official look of the Ministry to it. He cast a few detection spells before he opened it and pulled out the sheets of parchment within. Three identical squares, a document in triplicate.

He looked up at Hermione, noting that she had just opened his gift to her. He'd expected it would take him months to find the right ring, but he'd found it almost before he'd realized he planned to ask her at Christmas. He hadn't expected her to be with him for Christmas, so he'd written it all out and folded his proposal up in the little velvet box. The note was in her hand now, and the ring was on her finger. A gold band with three identical diamonds set into it (because she hated jewelry primarily because it was always getting caught on things, so she wouldn't want a ring with a gem in a setting that stuck out). A diamond for each part of him that she possessed—heart, mind, soul—as he'd explained in the note.

His heart thumped a little too hard and his stomach fluttered with nerves, but the symptoms vanished when she looked up and smiled at him.

"We seem to have had the same idea," Hermione said, leaving her gifts—she'd gotten a tin of biscuits from Minerva to go with her book from Dumbledore—on the couch and coming to lean against his desk, her hand finding his. The ring hadn't warmed against her skin yet, so it was a cool spot between his fingers when their fingers laced together.

"I will likely die before the war is over," he said, even though he'd written as much in the note. "I don't like making promises I can't keep, but if we marry I can… you'll have my assets when it's over. If they're not seized or destroyed out of hand, of course."

"Severus," she said, almost sharply. She took the folder from him and held up the parchment. It was a marriage license, their names and information in all the correct blanks. All it needed were their signatures and the signature of a witness. "When the war is over, you and I will go _together_ and file these in the Records Office. And we will glare at anybody who protests. And we will have children—plural. And we will… Oh, I don't know. I don't know what we'll do, or where we'll be, but we'll do it together, and we'll be there together."

"Hermione—"

"I know you want to live."

"Well of course I do!"

"So start acting like it," she said, practically a growl. "Make plans for the future with me."

"I don't like to make promises I can't keep." He sounded petulant, but he didn't care.

"We're at war, Severus. I'm almost as likely to wind up dead as you are." His stomach plummeted. He knew it was true, he just had been very careful not to think about it since the last time they'd had this conversation. She held up a hand, apparently seeing protest on his face. "I refuse to let _the Dark Lord_ and all this determine how I live my life. No, I know. It affects almost every aspect of my life. I just don't want to give another inch. I don't want to give it my future. I don't want to come out the other side—and I _have _to believe that I will, that we will—and find myself at odds about what to do. At least not with you. I want to know that nobody will be able to question us about this. That we can show them our license and tell them to stuff it, this isn't some crazy cathartic whirlwind."

He knew exactly what she meant. He could even almost agree with her. But he couldn't quite bring himself to hope that he would survive. He'd been trudging toward this death for too long to believe it could be any other way, even if he wanted to.

But they were in agreement, at least, that they would be married.

Severus took the papers from her, looking at them properly. It was the standard marriage license, combining assets and accepting any debts of the other as their own. She'd own half the dung heap that was Spinner's End, have a key to his vault at Gringott's, and the wards at Hogwarts would react to her as the spouse of a teacher. In the event of his death, she would take full ownership of his books and the potions equipment in his Hogwarts lab he'd bought with personal funds, and she'd hold his patents. Similarly, he'd have a key to her vault at Gringott's and access to her Muggle bank accounts as well. She didn't own any property, but he'd receive royalties from her published articles (none under her own name, of course) if she were to die.

Also, according to the last line of the document, where the parchment waited for her second signature, she'd be taking his name.

"Severus! Love. Don't cry!"

She took the papers from him, setting them on the desk and sliding easily into his lap. She wrapped her arms around him, and his arms came up to hold her reflexively. He didn't know why that set him off, her taking his name. Did that make it more real, was that it? No. It was that he hadn't actually thought it would ever happen.

Hermione Snape.

Good gods.

She wiped the tears off his face, smiling up at him. Her eyes were a bit watery, too. He smiled, and she kissed him.

"I'm afraid all you get out of marrying me is a mess of false documents that will need to be sorted out after the war," she said after awhile. She got off his lap and Summoned her satchel, pulling another ream of papers out of it to show him. She settled on his lap again, this time with her back against his chest so that she could show him the documents over her shoulder as she talked. "These are for you, though. So you'll know what to look for."

"What are they?"

"My aliases." She chuckled. "Dumbledore set me up with different identities in all that Time Turning, and here are the names and addresses for all of them. All the mail is rerouted to the flat in Edinburgh at the moment. The only active name is Sam Barnes, but the addresses are still warded if you ever need a place to go to ground. All the wards will let you in; I altered them last week.

"And this is more exciting," she said, shuffling her papers around to a section that was Muggle printer paper with a bank's logo at the top. "Banking. Since I've been mucking about with time, all my banking has been done in the Muggle world. The goblins would be too hard to trick with fake identities, and they'd probably get mad about it if we tried, so everything is in Muggle banks except for the fund my parents set up when I started at Hogwarts. Dumbledore has more or less funded me entirely, so the bits I've earned on the side have just been accruing interest. Not as much as they would've if they'd been going through time the way I have, but still."

She handed him three plastic credit cards, each with the name Simon Blake on them, and each for a different bank.

"Who is Simon Blake?"

"You are," she said, shuffling her papers around again. She handed him Muggle ID and a passport, both with his face on them and more-or-less his information. "I can't put you on my lease, of course; that would definitely tip Dumbledore off. I tied everything else together that I could, though."

He kissed her cheek through her hair, taking the documents from her and stacking them together again, setting them on the desk.

"Do I look like a Simon?"

"Not really," she said, turning a bit in his lap so that she could kiss him properly.

\\\

He sat through a torturous Christmas Dinner with his colleagues. Their company had been quite nice the previous evening, but that was before he knew he could've been spending time with Hermione.

His fiancée.

Hermione herself had unpacked a bit, clearly planning to spend the rest of the holiday in his rooms, and settled in with her new book. He'd dressed and had a look over his gifts again, making sure he'd remember what to thank each of them for, but he'd been dawdling.

"You aren't usually so eager to be away," Minerva observed from her seat next to him. He willed himself to slow down. It wouldn't do if he gave himself a stomachache from eating too fast. "Do you have other plans?"

It was said lightly, but the way she'd turned so that Filius on her other side wouldn't hear indicated she thought he might be headed for the Death Eaters.

"No," he said shortly, taking a long sip of wine. "Just… hungry."

"Hm."

"Minerva?" he asked quietly after awhile. They were well into desserts now, but he couldn't bring himself to more than pick at the chocolate pie on his plate.

"Are you alright, Severus?"

"Yes. I promise you I am," he said, smiling slightly. Down the table, Dumbledore laughed cheerily at something one of the students had said, then rose and wished those he'd been talking to a Happy Christmas before he made his way out of the Hall.

"Are you sure? You seem… off."

He almost smiled. But that would be a sure way to attract the headmaster's attention. "I was wondering if you'd join me in my sitting room for tea this evening."

"Gladly, Severus. Gladly." She said it with such a genuine smile that he really did smile back at her. One of the Hufflepuffs choked on his pumpkin juice, and Slughorn pounded him on the back jovially. Severus glowered at the pair of them.

When he returned to his rooms, she wasn't there. He came to a full stop, his heart hammering in his chest. It was like he'd had a very pleasant dream only to have it twist itself into a nightmare.

She'd left him a note. The world started turning again, if slowly. She was meeting with Dumbledore. She'd be back.

He spent half an hour pacing his quarters, rearranging his things, pulling papers out and making little stacks on his desk, before he finally sat down and stared at their marriage license. Hermione Snape. Holy shit.

He felt her coming long before she arrived. Not in the good way where he could sense her mind, but in that she was fairly vibrating with tension. A few of the candles went out when she entered the room, and the single throw pillow he had on the chair by the fire (not his reading chair, but the one he never used) puffed up a little bit as if it wasn't sure if it was going to explode or not.

"I have good news and bad news," she said, coming to lean against the desk next to him. She was wearing a Muggle dress, down to just above her knees and sleeves to her elbows, lace the color of buttery cream with a thin brown belt around her waist. She looked deliciously feminine. He wanted to touch her, and he didn't restrain himself; for once he didn't have to. He put his hand on the nearest knee, running it up her thigh to just beneath the hem and back down. It seemed to calm her. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she continued speaking, "The good news is that I'll be staying at Hogwarts. The bad news is that I'll be picking up my timeline where I left off."

"You'll be a student."

"Yes."

He couldn't help it: He laughed. He laughed long and hard.

"That will be more tolerable than the other you running around these halls," he said, resting his hand just above the back of her knee. "You'll know what it is when I do this." He brushed her mind with his, and she smiled back at him.

"I'll be in Gryffindor Tower. I'm supposed to stick to Harry like glue, let him get into his trouble but keep him out of harm."

"So basically what you'd been doing anyway."

"Yes. But…"

"Yes," he agreed. "But."

\\\

Minerva arrived an hour or so later, bringing a bottle of red wine with her.

"Hermione! My dear, I had no idea you were in the castle" Minerva said upon entering the room, then gave Severus a shrewd look. "Though that does explain why Severus was in such a hurry to finish Christmas dinner."

"Hello, Minerva," Hermione said, hugging the older witch. It struck Severus that he should be more nervous than he was. Minerva was just as much Hermione's surrogate mother as she was his; this was like bringing the girl home to meet the parents and going home to meet _her _parents all rolled into one.

Not to mention the part where they intended to modify Minerva's memory when it was all said and done. The thought of it didn't sit particularly well with him.

"Shall we have the wine, then?" Severus asked, transfiguring the teacups he'd pulled out into wine glasses.

They sat together, enjoying the wine and chatting. Hermione explained about Dumbledore's plan for her to pose as a student, and Minerva was duly amused. After almost an hour, Severus noted that he and Hermione had situated themselves rather comfortably close to each other on the couch, and Minerva was eyeing the space between them with a badly-concealed smirk.

"Out with it, Minerva," he said. Hermione hid her smile by taking a sip of wine. He nudged her with his shoulder.

"It's nothing, Severus," she said quickly, smiling outright now. "I'm just glad to see you two are friends. Really. You've both been isolated by the war, by the—by the tasks the headmaster has set for you."

"Yes, I suppose we have," Hermione echoed, twining her fingers with his, turning their hands so that they rested on his thigh with her hand turned up. Minerva finally noticed the ring.

"Actually, Minerva," he said, his nerves returning threefold. "I asked you to come down here for a reason. For the decent company as well, of course, but. Well. We need a witness."

"A witness?"

"Yes," Hermione said, Summoning the marriage license to them and holding it out to Minerva.

"Oh!" Minerva beamed. Severus's nerves vanished at that look. The Transfigurations Mistress was teary-eyed, her hand shaking as she traced a finger along the lines of text, not really reading it. "Oh, I'm so happy for you both. This is wonderful."

"Thank you, Minerva," Severus said, glancing down at Hermione. Her smile was so wide that he was almost nervous she'd break her face.

"You should have a party, you know," Minerva chastised a moment later, blinking the tears out of her eyes but continuing to smile. "You deserve to celebrate."

"When the war is done," Hermione said. She squeezed his hand. "We'll celebrate when the war is done and we can officially file that license."

"I suppose," Minerva said after a pause, giving him a sad look that meant she'd remembered he was a spy. Normally the look would've annoyed him, but something about it in that moment made him feel oddly cared for. Maybe it was Hermione's hand in his.

"Will you be our witness, Minerva?" Hermione asked.

"Of course I will."

They all stood, going to the desk because that's where the quill and ink were. There were two blanks on the left side of the parchment for him to sign, two blanks on the right side for Hermione (the second of them signed _Hermione Snape_), and one blank at the bottom for Minerva to attest that everything had been done above-board. The three of them signed each copy, then they went back in the Ministry folder, which went in the top right-hand desk drawer, and that was that.

"Well, the three of us will have a party," Minerva said. She went to the fireplace and ordered them dessert and more wine.

It was a very, very good night. Right up until they had to remove it from Minerva's mind.

Severus put a drop of sedative in her glass. Hermione removed the memory when Minerva was asleep, putting it in one of the vials he'd received from Filius for Christmas. They labeled it "Minerva, witness 12/25" and stored it away in the bandolier. Then he Obliviated the remnants of the memory from her mind (keeping it from reforming as memories thus removed did). Hermione left the room and Severus woke Minerva, sending her back to her rooms with a smile and a "thank you for a pleasant evening."

* * *

**AN: If this seems a bit sudden, I apologize. I've moved this chapter around and rewritten it too many times to count. It just doesn't work as well if the marriage comes later (or not even later, still at Christmas but with a few other events thrown in beforehand). Whatever. Deal with it. Send me hang-ups and complaints and I will respond to them as best I can—or just enjoy the part where things are going to start _happening_ now that she's caught up to herself in time.**

**One thing I thought of while editing but didn't have a good opening to address in-story was Dumbledore not being aware that Hermione was in the castle, despite his being headmaster and all the fancy wards keeping track of things like that for him. In my little world, the wards didn't ping him with her presence because she's supposed to be in the school—as a student, yes, but the magic can't tell that she's not the same as the girl in Gryffindor Tower, though if Dumbledore were to have had a more-than-glancing look at the whatsit that monitors the wards from his office it would have told him that there was a peculiar instance of a student being in two places at once; and after Christmas she'd register as a professor's wife (still somebody who was supposed to be in the castle, not worth a ping from the wards), which would have been more interesting if he'd noticed, but he didn't because there's a war on and even Albus Dumbledore can't keep track of every little thing. So Dumbledore remained unaware that Hermione was in the castle before and after the quick briefing he had with her directly after Christmas dinner.**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	19. Chapter Eighteen

A few days after New Years, Hermione woke on the verge of orgasm, her husband—gods, her _husband_—with his face buried between her legs. It was easily her favorite way to be woken up.

She came undone, knees bending of their own accord, her hands flying to his hair, trying to still him. He continued licking, sucking, wrapping his lips around her clit. She could feel his moan as well as she heard it.

"My god, Severus," she moaned.

"My goddess, Hermione," he replied, teasing. She laughed. He kissed his way up her body, putting two fingers into her and flicking her clit with his thumb. She writhed beneath him, her laugh turning into a gasp.

She grabbed his wrist, pushing his fingers farther in, lifting her hips up to meet his hand, hissing with pleasure. Severus kissed her mouth, fingers twitching deep inside her.

"_Please_, Severus," she said, using her grip on his wrist to pull his hand out and away. He traced his wet fingers up the side of her waist, over her ribs, and finally palmed her breast. "Please!"

"Patience, Madam Snape."

Lightning was flickering along her nerve endings. She pushed into his mind, not brushing warmly against him like she usually would but assaulting him with the full force of her need. He gasped, his sure motion faltering, and Hermione seized the moment, rolling them in the bed so that she was on top, taking him in hand, taking him inside.

She rolled her hips, setting a slow pace. Her hands on his chest kept him from bucking underneath her, though she could tell he wanted to. She looked down on him as she moved, watching the flex of muscles beneath his skin, the emotions chasing across his face. His eyes were closed, his lips parted in pleasure.

She leaned down and kissed him, snaking her tongue between his lips. His response was immediate, arms wrapping around her and pulling her flush against him. They kissed, keeping up the little rolling, twitching rhythm of their hips.

"Balls," Hermione swore, tearing her lips away when she absolutely had to stop to breathe. Severus laughed deep in his chest and slid his hands down to her hips, holding her down to him as he thrust up sharply once, twice, on the third time he came. As he slackened inside her, he pressed her clit with his thumb, bringing her off again.

They lay together, her sprawled across his chest entirely without dignity, catching their breath.

When they'd cooled enough that lying naked on the bed without a blanket on was uncomfortable, Hermione got up. Severus stayed where he was, enjoying the view. She tried not to be too pleased with that, with his eyes on her.

"I need a shower," she announced. "Join me?"

She turned toward the bathroom and didn't have to look behind her to know that he would follow.

She turned the tap on, and he was on her. He had her in his arms even before she heard the door slamming closed behind him. It made her smile.

The warm water made her skin prickle after the cool air of the dungeon. Hermione stuck her head under the flow, wetting her hair down and pushing it back out of her face. Severus helped, smoothing it back and away, putting his lips against her neck as his hands continued the motion down her back, snaking around her and holding her close. Hermione leaned into him. The water cascaded between them, around them. As he stepped further in, the flow hit his shoulder instead of hers, flying up in a fine mist over his back.

She turned to face him, wrapping her arms around his neck and tilting her head up so that he could kiss her properly. He did. With gusto.

She found the shampoo and began washing her hair, but Severus stopped her. He kissed her eyelids closed, then washed her hair himself, tickling his fingertips along her scalp, as he rinsed the shampoo away. She kept her eyes closed, letting her head fall back as he washed her with a soft flannel, hands moving across her skin as if he knew it just as well as she did. Which, of course, he did.

When he'd finished, he was on his knees in the shower, just outside the flow of the water. She stood under the spray, letting the last of the soap run away. Before he could get any ideas about how close his lips were to her quim, she began on his hair. He closed his eyes, letting her lather and rinse. He had fine hair, so surprisingly soft compared to her own dry curls.

She pulled him to his feet when his hair was done, moving on to the rest of him. He watched her, dark eyes following every move. He leaned into her touch; he was seducing her even though she was the one touching him.

He had a broad back, crossed with almost as many scars as hers. She followed the lines of the scars as she rubbed the soap along, but otherwise didn't pay particular attention. She urged him to raise his arm so that she could scrub his ribs and armpit, then the arm itself. Repeated on the other side. Then his legs, one at a time, examining the scars as she came across them. She knew every single one of them by now. He had spirals from the Cruciatus, just as she did; one on his left shoulder blade, and another on the outside of his right knee.

She saved his cock for last, but she made up for the oversight by paying it more attention than the rest of him. She brought the flannel to it first, rubbing gently, feeling it stir in her hand. Severus groaned, leaning forward, dipping his head into the flow of the water and bracing his hands on the wall behind her. She stayed crouched at his feet, letting the increased flow of water wash away the suds as she put them there. She wrapped the flannel around his cock and moved it up and down the length of it a few times, then moved, attending the heavy sack hanging behind.

Hermione set the flannel aside, bringing her hand up instead, chasing away the last of the bubbles. He moaned, then cut off the noise with a sharp breath when she replaced her hand with her mouth. Slowly, she pressed forward, taking him in, willing away the feel of impending choking until he hit the back of her throat. His hips jerked and she swallowed convulsively, or tried to.

"Fuck!"

His hips jerked twice more, fucking her mouth, and she sucked hard, squeezing his balls gently, pulling slightly.

He tore himself away, reaching down and lifting her bodily to her feet with hands under her arms. He slammed her into the wall and put his tongue where his cock had been. She wrapped her legs around him, wrapped her arms around him, tried to consume him. He was jerking, humping, thrusting against her, but he wasn't inside her. She cried out, frustrated, and he growled again.

Severus stepped away, urging her legs down, and then spun her around to face the wall. She gasped; the wall was cold against her breasts. She put her hands up, using them to help her shove back against him. He grabbed her hips, spread her ass, and then he was in. Hermione keened in time with his thrusts, meeting his driving rhythm.

She came hard, shattering as he fucked her against the wall of his shower. He followed her over the edge, slamming her against the wall one last time and burying his face against her neck, his lips finding the underside of her jaw.

"How are we going to do this, Sev?" she asked twenty minutes later, when they'd finally left the shower. She wore his bathrobe, but hadn't bothered to close it. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, and she enjoyed looking at his chest covered in her love bites just as surely as he'd like seeing his marks on her beneath the robe.

"I have no idea," he said, not bothering to pretend he didn't know what she was talking about.

It had almost been a honeymoon, the weeks they'd spent holed up in his rooms. It hadn't exclusively been time spent together. He'd had duties around the school, marking to do, and he'd been Summoned twice. She'd had meetings with the headmaster and minor tasks of her own to tend to. But the majority of the holiday had been spent delightfully nude.

\\\

She left him a few hours later. There was no Polyjuice Potion to take so that she would look as she had at seventeen. (Or had she been eighteen already? She couldn't remember.) She'd brushed her hair out too quickly, letting it frizz up around her as it used to. She'd put on the skirt and knee socks. She'd have to wear a Glamour to hide the fine lines by her eyes and the scars on her arms and hands.

"I don't like it," Severus had said before she left. His fingers played with the edge of her student robe, his eyes on her Gryffindor tie.

"You think I do?"

"No," he said softly. His hands patted and stroaked at her hair, trying to smooth it back the way he was used to seeing it. It didn't work.

She'd gone after a protracted good-bye—he'd kept grabbing her back to him. She'd eaten lunch in the Great Hall with the handful of students who had returned, then she'd gone out to Hagrid's to practice beign a teenager on somebody before Harry and Ron arrived back.

It was only on her way back into the castle that Hermione realized she was still wearing her ring. She had half a mind to spell it—maybe a Notice-Me-Not or just Disillusion it—but… it wouldn't work. Dumbledore, not to mention most of the other teachers, would notice that she was wearing something on her hand hidden by spells. Eventually somebody would get curious and either ask or just lift the spells surreptitiously. She hid the ring in her pocket for now and continued on her way.

Hagrid had some very good advice about the teenaged angst she'd forgotten—the Ron and Lavender issue—in the interim. She left him feeding Buckbeak and took the long way back up to the school, wondering how long she'd have before she had to pretend to have a row with Ron about his girlfriend. She wondered if she could keep a straight face in sight of Lavender Brown showing off her hickie-speckled neck, or if she'd give in and strip down to put on her pajamas in full view, showing off the hickies she currently sported that were definitely _not _restrained to her neck.

"Hello, Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore said jovially. He looked as though he might have been waiting for her in the entrance hall.

"Hello, Headmaster," she said brightly, doing her best to exude teenaged naiveté for the sake of the fourth years on their way outside for a snowball fight.

"Did you have a nice holiday?"

"It was lovely. Thank you, sir," she said. The real testament to her conversation with Hagrid was in the fact that she kept the bitterness out of her response. _Lovely holiday indeed. Ten years off from being a student of Hogwarts, but at what cost?_

"Wonderful, wonderful," he said. It struck her that he played the dotty grandfather because that was who he wished he was. The conniving mastermind, the one leading the fight, was who he was, who his life had made him. It made her sad, thinking of it. "I wonder if you might do me a favor, my dear."

"Of course, sir."

"Would you be so kind as to deliver this to Mr. Potter when he returns from his holiday?"

"Yes, sir. I will."

She left him, thankful all she had to do was play owl. She'd feared for a split second that he was going to send her away somewhere, to have her Turn back and complete another task.

Harry, Ron and Ginny were standing outside the portrait hole when she got there.

"Harry! Ginny!" she cried, remembering at the last second to leave Ron out. She hurried down the corridor. "I got back a couple of hours ago, I've just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck—I mean Witherwings," she said, breathless from the trot down the hallway after running up the stairs from the entrance hall. She really needed to start running in the mornings again. "Did you have a good Christmas?"

"Yeah," Ron said at once, "pretty eventful, Rufus Scrim—"

"I've got something for you, Harry," she said, cutting Ron off before he could say something stupid out where everybody could hear. "Oh, hang on—password. _Abstinence_."

"Precisely," said the Fat Lady in a feeble voice, and swung forward to reveal the portrait hole. Hermione hid her grin by taking off her hat and smoothing down the curls that frizzed up in its wake.

"What's up with her?" Harry asked.

"Overindulged over Christmas, apparently," Hermione said, rolling her eyes and going first into the common room. It felt like ages since she'd been there, and that was true enough. It was already packed with returned students. "She and her friend Violet drank their way through all the wine in that picture of drunk monks down by the Charms corridor." Minerva had had a good laugh when she'd retold the story and given Hermione the new password. "Anyway…" She rummaged in her pocket for a moment, then pulled out the scroll of parchment with Dumbledore's handwriting on it.

"Great," Harry said, unrolling it. "I've got loads to tell him—and you. Let's sit down—"

But they were interrupted by the arrival of Lavender. With a squeal of "Won-Won!" at an entirely inappropriate decibel for the indoors, she came hurtling out of nowhere and flung herself into Ron's arms. Several onlookers sniggered, and Hermione noted a particularly smug, teenagerly look from Parvati Patil, Lavender's partner in crime.

Hermione laughed and pointed out an empty table to Harry. "There's a table over there… Coming, Ginny?"

"No, thanks, I said I'd meet Dean," Ginny said without much enthusiasm, and headed off.

Harry led the way over to the table as Hermione extricated herself from the rest of her winter gear, shoving hat and mittens into pockets she wished she'd thought to Expand.

"So how was your Christmas?"

"Oh, fine." She shrugged. "Nothing special. How was it at Won-Won's?" She couldn't help it if it was a ridiculous pet name. She tried to imagine calling Severus Sevvy or some such rot and fought down a laugh.

"I'll tell you in a minute," said Harry. "Look, Hermione, can't you—?"

"No, I can't," she said flatly. "So don't even ask." That was what she'd say if she was in love with Ron, right?

"I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas—"

"It was the Fat Lady who drank a vat of five-hundred-year-old wine, Harry, not me. So what was this important news you wanted to tell me?" Besides, the little vertical wrestling match the two of them were engaged in out in full view of the common room was appalling.

Harry launched into the story of an overheard conversation between Draco Malfoy and Severus. She tried not to be sick to her stomach, thinking how much information he had, how close he really was. He was only missing a few key components, and then he'd be able to put it together. (Would that make things better or worse?)

"Don't you think—?"

"—he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing?"

"Well, yes," said Hermione. And, of course, that was exactly what Severus was doing. There had been too many botched attempts already. It was dangerous.

"Ron's dad and Lupin think so," Harry said, but only grudgingly. "But this definitely proves Malfoy's planning something, you can't deny that."

"No, I can't."

"And he's acting on Voldemort's orders, just like I said!"

"Hmmm… did either of them actually mention Voldemort's name?" _Don't get ahead of yourself, Harry._

"I'm not sure… Snape definitely said 'your master,' and who else could that be?"

"I don't know." Hermione bit her lip. "Maybe his father?"

Hermione looked out at the room. Lavender was now tickling Ron. Ginny had found Dean, and they were cuddled in an armchair together talking quietly. The other students milled about, joking and talking, showing off Christmas gifts.

"How's Lupin?" The last she'd talked to him, he hadn't seemed well. He didn't like Sam Barnes much, so she hadn't gotten anything worthwhile out of him, but she would have to have been blind not to see how tired he was, and it hadn't even been nearing the full moon.

"Not great," Harry said, going on to tell her about Lupin's mission with the werewolves and the difficulties it contained. "Have you heard of this Fenrir Greyback?"

"Yes, I have," she said, surprised he hadn't recognized the name. "And so have you, Harry."

"When, History of Magic? You know full well I never listened…"

"No, now, not History of Magic—Malfoy threatened Borgin with him," she said. It seemed like a very long time ago. "Back in Knockturn Alley, don't you remember? He told Borgin that Greyback was an old family friend and that he'd be checking up on Borgin's progress."

"I forgot! But this _proves _Malfoy's a Death Eater, how else could he be in contact with Greyback and telling him what to do?"

"It is pretty suspicious," she agreed. And it was a miracle they hadn't been spotted and killed. Why the hell had they gone to Knockturn Alley? "Unless…"

"Oh, come on," Harry said, exasperated, "you can't get round this one!"

"Well… there is the possibility it was an empty threat." But of course it wasn't. Severus had told her about the night Draco took the Mark ages ago. It hadn't been pleasant. Draco was his godson; he'd felt like he failed.

"You're unbelievable, you are," Harry said, shaking his head. "We'll see who's right… You'll be eating your words, Hermione, just like the Ministry. Oh yeah, I had a row with Rufus Scrimgeor as well…"

Hermione relaxed as the topic of Draco Malfoy and her husband dropped in favor of abusing the Minister of Magic. What had the Minister expected? After all the Ministry had put Harry through the previous year, to go asking for help… well, it took some nerve.

\\\

The next morning, Hermione woke in her narrow four-poster all alone. She almost cried. The hours with Severus the previous morning seemed like an entirely different lifetime. She wondered if she could get away with sneaking down to his quarters, or maybe just popping by his office before the first class for a good morning kiss. Not likely.

She dressed quickly, pulling on the old uniform and feeling incredibly stupid. She hadn't changed that much in the past decade. She was still shortish, smallish. She missed the weight of her casual robes, the convenient Expanded pockets. She missed her satchel, though she'd folded it down to wallet size and kept it in the pocket of her robe.

The ring Severus had given her was in its box hidden in the depths of her satchel. All the charms she could think of to hide it on her finger were too obvious—the best option was a Notice-Me-Not, but that would leave people tending to overlook the entirety of her left hand, which would get problematic at best—or not strong enough to be effective. She'd almost put it on the chain around her neck next to the Time Turner, but Dumbledore ocassionally asked her to Turn back an hour or a day, and he'd see it. So hidden it was; on her person, but not the way she'd like…

There was a queue by the notice board in the common room. Apparation lessons. She smirked. Minerva had taught her to Apparate. It had taken a week.

Hermione signed her name and moved aside for Ron, only to have Lavender pop up behind him.

"Guess who, Won-Won?"

Hermione ducked out, not sure she could stomach it so early in the morning. Had she ever been like that? Ever? She didn't remember being like that even when she really had been a sixteen year-old girl.

Harry caught up with her and then, moments later, Ron. His ears were bright red, expression disgusted. Hermione tried not to laugh at him.

"So—Apparation," Ron said, tone making it clear that they weren't to mention what had just happened. "Should be a laugh, eh?"

"I dunno," said Harry. "Maybe it's better when you do it yourself. I didn't enjoy it much when Dumbledore took me along for the ride."

"I forgot you'd already done it… I'd better pass my test first time," said Ron. "Fred and George did."

"Charlie failed, though, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but Charlie's bigger than me—" He held his arms out like a gorilla. "—so Fred and George didn't go on about it much… not to his face anyway…"

"When can we take the actual test?"

"Soon as we're seventeen. That's only March for me!"

"Yeah, but you wouldn't be able to Apparate in here, not in the castle…"

"Not the point, is it? Everyone would know I _could _Apparate if I wanted."

Hermione restrained herself. She'd felt a sudden urge to put an arm around each of them and hold them close. She'd missed them. Good God, she'd missed them a lot. It didn't even matter that they were a full decade younger than her now, or that she had to keep a ridiculous number of secrets from them. They were her friends. Real friends. They knew things about her, and she knew things about them, and they had inside jokes.

Apparation was the topic of conversation at the Gryffindor table. Everybody eligible was positively vibrating with prospect of it, and they talked of little else. Even in Charms that morning.

"How cool will it be when we can just—" Seamus snapped his fingers. "Me cousin Fergus does it just to annoy me. You wait till I can do it back… He'll never have another peaceful moment!"

Seamus, distracted by his own story, jabbed his wand too sharply when casting _Aguamenti_ and sent a hoselike jet of water out of his wand instead of the fountain he was supposed to. The jet ricocheted off the ceiling and knocked Professor Flitwick flat on his face.

Hermione rolled her eyes—she'd been doing that a lot—and made a show of concentrating on her wand movement as Flitwick passed her desk.

\\\

The next morning, Harry told her about his latest lesson with Dumbledore. Still working on that memory of Slughorn's—confirming the Horcruxes beyond a doubt?—and why the hell had Dumbledore told him about Horcruxes? His connection with Voldemort, uncontrollable even if he had managed to pick up any Occlumency, was reason enough to keep that one away from him.

"He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn't get it out of him," Hermione said quietly. It had only been a year ago that she'd dressed to the nines to be mysterious and gain Slughorn's attention; apparently the maneuver had only been partially successful. They were in a deserted courtyard during a break in classes, which meant that it could go from deserted to overcrowded any moment. "Horcruxes… _Horcruxes_… I've never heard of them," she lied. If she told him she knew what they were, he might wonder how, and she knew for a fact that none of the books in the Hogwarts library held any information on them, even in passing.

"You haven't?" He was disappointed, that was clear. She almost smiled at him. She'd forgotten what a walking encyclopedia she'd always been for him.

"They must be really advanced Dark Magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it's going to be difficult to get the information. Harry, you'll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy…"

"Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions this afternoon…"

"Oh, well, if _Won-Won _thinks that, you'd better do it," she said. With any luck, Ron's prompting and her goading would result in his simply asking Slughorn, and Slughorn would refuse to tell him if he knew what was good for him, and then she wouldn't have to worry about it for awhile. "After all, when has _Won-Won's_ judgment ever been faulty?"

"Hermione, can't you—?"

"_No_!" She stormed off. She wanted to see her husband. She wouldn't have class with him until the following day, and that was probably going to be its own little circle of hell. She just wanted to hold him. To smell him. To talk to him.

He wasn't in his office and she almost hexed his chair. Instead, she left him a note and went on down to Potions.

Remembering she was supposed to be mad at both Harry and Ron, she took her things around the table by Ernie and didn't look at them. Ernie was bemused.

"Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott's Third Law… who can tell me—? But Miss Granger can, of course!"

"Galpalott's Third Law states that the antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components," she recited almost quickly enough that she tripped over her own tongue. She and Severus had had quite the argument over the summer, shortly after Dumbledore had been cursed. He'd said that they might be able to work out a countercurse using the principles in Galpalott's Third Law. She'd pointed out that it was a spell not a potion. They'd had a semi-heated academic debate about it. It had been the first argument that Hermione had definitively won, not that it made her happy; her winning meant that they hadn't made a step closer to the headmaster no longer being cursed.

The class passed slowly. She was an apt brewer; she had lots of practice. She'd never be a Potions Mistress, she didn't have the knack for it, for experimentation or improvisation. She couldn't look at a collection of ingredients and immediately know what to do with it like Severus could. She could follow a recipe, though, and she had a steady hand.

She made herself act smug when Harry's reliance on Severus's old book came crashing around his ears. She felt a little bad, leaving him out to dry as she was, but not bad enough to step around and help him. There were unpleasant spells in that book, spells that could really hurt Harry or anybody else he tried them on.

"Time's… UP!" Slughorn finally called out. She'd been distracted watching Harry run off to the store cupboard like an idiot, and had a few things left to get in the vials before Slughorn checked her work.

"You've got nerve, boy!" Slughorn boomed, and Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry hadn't grasped the principle of the lesson in the least. He'd grabbed a bezoar, which would actually help the victim of the poison in his cauldron, but it wouldn't have helped with the poison in Ron's cauldron. Slughorn held up the bezoar to show the class, smiling widely. "Oh, you're like your mother… Well, I can't fault you… A bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!"

Hermione seethed at the sheer idiocy. Had he not looked in Ron's cauldron? Maybe the initial poison could have been treated by a bezoar, but after the heat from the fire beneath the cauldron and whatever spells Ron had been casting on it… She really hoped nobody was breathing too deeply near it.

The bell rang, and Hermione took the moment of chaos that always followed to Vanish the contents of Ron's cauldron before leaving the room. She was supposed to be mad at Ron, so she didn't wait for him. And Harry was hanging back to ask Slughorn about Horcruxes.

\\\

Harry brooded for the next few days. She left him to it, telling him she'd be in the library and then making her way to Severus's quarters. He'd dropped the book he'd been holding the first time she'd shown up. She'd had a free period before dinner, so she'd made herself comfortable in his reading chair and settled in to write a dull and overly swotty essay for Ancient Runes.

"Hello, Husband," she said without looking up. "Fancy a shag?" She did look up then, through her eyelashes.

He'd taken her right there on the rug in front of the fire, smudging the ink on her essay so badly that she'd had to rewrite it. They'd held onto each other after, Hermione tucked perfectly just _there_ against his chest with her face in the hollow his throat.

She'd spent the rest of the evening in one of Severus's old shirts, reveling in the way his eyes trailed after her whenever she moved. Of course, she was watching him a little too closely, too. Touching him whenever she could.

"I've missed you," he said. They'd ordered dinner from the kitchens and had it spread out on the low table by the fire, sitting on the sofa and eating shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh.

"I've missed you, too," she said, leaning into him. "This is awful. This is more awful than not seeing each other at all."

"I don't know," he said, leaning back and chewing. "That would be bad, too."

She sighed, leaning her forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her, holding on.

She left just before curfew each night, taking a random book out of her bag to stick her nose into as she entered the common room each time. None of her House-mates asked questions when she had her nose in a book.

Saturday morning, she talked with Harry about Horcruxes, or at least the lack of information in the Hogwarts library about them.

"I haven't found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do! Not a single one! I've been right through the restricted section and even in the most _horrible _books, where they tell you how to brew the most _gruesome _potions—nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduction to _Magick Moste Evile_—listen—'Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction…' I mean, why mention it then?" Dramatically, she slammed the old book shut and snapped at it to shut up when it let out a ghostly wail. Damned overdramatic thing.

\\\

The following Tuesday was Severus's birthday. Just after midnight, she put everything she'd need for the coming day in her satchel and slipped out of the tower. She'd left her hangings open; her roommates would see the empty bed in the morning and assume she'd woken early and gone down to breakfast.

His wards were set to let her in. Walking quietly, she set her things on the chair and lay her dressing gown over the back of it before slipping into his bedroom. He stirred, but a brush of her mind set him back to sleep. The ease of that comfort to his half-waking mind touched all the soft parts on her heart. She slipped into bed beside him, slowly working her way into his sleeping embrace.

His confusion woke her six hours later. She turned in his arms and smiled at him. He blinked at her groggily.

"Hermione? What day is it?"

"It's Tuesday," she said, pecking him on the lips. He continued to look confused. "Happy Birthday, Severus."

"Birthday?"

She grinned, wrapping her arms around him and pressing herself close. She couldn't remember the last time they'd been in bed and hadn't been naked. This morning, he was in flannel pajama bottoms, and she was wearing pajama bottoms of her own and a camisole. The fabric was soft between them, but she wanted to feel his skin. They had an hour before breakfast in the Great Hall, and another hour after that before classes. She planned to miss breakfast.

"Yes."

She held onto him until he hugged her back. He still seemed confused. She decided he would catch up eventually, and went on to the next part of her plan, which was to thoroughly ravish him (or be ravished, whichever he preferred).

It turned out he wanted to do the ravishing. Once he'd gotten over the shock of waking with her in his arms, he seemed rather pleased about it. He suckled her tits and had his hands all over her before slamming her down into the pillows and rising over her like a man possessed. He held the headboard and pounded into her, grunting with each thrust. She bent her knees so she could brace her feet against the mattress and push back into him, keeping time.

She didn't bother to get dressed when they finished, just led him out into the sitting room after casting a Cleansing Charm on the both of them. They sat in his reading chair by the fire, her draped across his lap as before, and fed each other bites of fruit and crescent rolls, pausing now and again for lingering kisses, talking about whatever came to mind. When they'd eaten their fill, she shifted in his lap so that she straddled him, taking him inside her and beginning to rock her hips against his.

They dressed slowly after. She had to put her shirt on four times before she got her sweater over it; he kept peeling it off her. She didn't make it much easier for him; whenever she'd start buttoning up his frock coat she'd get distracted and find herself undoing buttons, sliding it off his shoulders.

Finally, they were dressed. She knew for a fact that they both looked well laid, but it was likely nobody would spot it. She smoothed his robes, flicking nonexistent dust off his shoulder for an excuse to keep touching him. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her gently.

"Happy Birthday," she said when he stepped back. He merely smiled a self-satisfied smile and watched her walk out of his room. She smirked at him over her shoulder before closing the door and made her way to the greenhouses for her first class of the day.

The walk out was miserable and snowy, but inside the greenhouse was toasty. Professor Sprout was lecturing on plant interaction today, and Hermione ended up between Neville, who was fascinated, and Pansy Parkinson, who was bored.

It occurred to her halfway through the lesson that she'd killed one of Parkinson's cousins not so very long ago.

\\\

Harry and Ron grumbled about the cold all the way across the courtyard on the way in, but Hermione hardly heard them. She'd memorized Severus's timetable for the day, and was reviewing the schedule she'd decided on.

Charms was next. Everybody had finally more-or-less mastered _Aguamenti_, and they'd moved on to Sticking Charms, the most common way to hang pictures in wizarding households. Hermione spent the lesson trying not to remember the day on the ward at St. Mungo's when she'd been part of un-sticking two particularly distraught children who'd been playing with their mother's wand and accidentally cast a Sticking Charm on themselves.

After Charms was her free period before lunch. She told the boys she'd be in the library and dashed off for the Defense classroom. As she approached, she Disillusioned herself in case he wasn't alone, but she needn't have bothered; he was the only one in the classroom.

"Hello," she said quietly, slipping in and locking the door as she dropped her spell. He smiled at her, making her insides turn to liquid. She smiled back, laughing at herself, and leaned across the desk to give him a kiss when she made it to the front of the classroom.

"You must've run the whole way up here to make it from—Charms isn't it?—before my class," he said, standing and coming round the desk to hug her. He leaned back against the desk and continued to hold her.

"I have a free period and it's your birthday, so I thought I'd make the effort."

"It's appreciated," he murmured into her hair. She wrapped her arms around him and just enjoyed standing with him while it lasted. The feel of his arms around her, the rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek. The smell of his skin and robes. The sense of his mind, wrapping around hers as hers wrapped around his, consciousnesses twining together without sending direct thoughts (no eye contact), just the sense of love, completion.

Hermione wondered if she'd be able to stand in his arms like this for his next birthday, and her soul ached at the thought that she might not.

"I love you, Severus Snape," she said, pulling back when she heard the first student try the door.

"And I love you," he said, giving her a lingering kiss, "Hermione Snape."

She wondered if she'd ever get used to that, and hoped she didn't. She smiled at him one last time before Disillusioning herself again and flinging the door open so that it banged against the wall. The students—fifth year Gryffindors and Slytherins—filed in and took their seats. She slipped out, making her way to her favorite study spot behind the gargoyle near the entrance hall. Not only did she have a translation for Ancient Runes, Severus would walk past the alcove on his way to lunch.

The period passed slowly. The translation hadn't been difficult, so Hermione had gotten her equations for Arithmancy out of the way as well. Finally, she heard students beginning to fill the hallways on their way to the Hall for lunch, and she packed up her bag.

When Severus strode past, Hermione darted out after him. He slowed his pace ever so slightly to accommodate her shorter legs. Their hands brushed for an instant, hidden in the folds of his voluminous robes, and then he swept up to the Head Table, and Hermione took her place between Harry and Neville. Neville carried a conversation about Nepalese water plants with very little encouragement, allowing her to look past him, watching Severus make polite conversation with Minerva. He darted glances her much more often than he probably should have.

She left the table when she saw Severus leave the Head Table, telling Neville she was having trouble with one of her Arithmancy problems and wanted to give it a go before Defense. She headed Severus off at her alcove, checking up and down the hall for witnesses before pushing him behind the gargoyle and flicking her wand to keep anybody from noticing them.

"Not that I mind all this attention, Mrs. Snape," he said formally, pulling himself up to his full height and looking shrewdly down at her, "but what are you playing at?"

She smiled. She couldn't help it; he'd called her 'Mrs. Snape.'

"I'm not playing at anything," she said, dropping her bag onto the stone seat at the back of the alcove. "I love you, and it's your birthday. It's as simple as that, really. While we can't do it every day, today I am making it my personal priority to remind you, every moment that I can, just how much I adore you."

He maintained his curious look and aloof posture very well while she opened his robes and unbuttoned his frock coat, but his composure shattered when she opened the front of his trousers. His hips jerked against her hand, and he groaned. Smirking, she knelt in front of him, burrowing into his robes, ducking beneath the tails of his shirt, and finding her prize.

Hermione teased him with fingers and lips, wondering what he would do if she only teased him, if she brought him to the brink and then tidied him away back into his trousers and darted off to his classroom before he could catch her. She discarded the thought. It was his birthday, after all.

He had a large cock. Putting it "politely" would be to say that he was well-hung. His balls were soft, pliable in her hands; his rod the velvet-encased steal straight out of a bad romance novel. His pubic hair was black as the hair on his head, very slightly curly. He smelled amazing; the musk of man.

She pet at the soft skin of his inner thighs and nuzzled against him, breathing him in. When she kissed the underside of his shaft, his knees gave out and he fell back against the base of the gargoyle behind him. She shifted forward to be closer again, now massaging his sack with one hand as she tugged gently on his cock with the other, planting light kisses around the base as she stroked. She kissed where her hand went, trailing her tongue up the length of him, nipping at his tip, sucking the head of his cock into her mouth only to pop it out and move again.

Wet, open-mouthed kisses along his shaft, sucking lightly, and then she took him into her mouth properly. She looked up at him as she did, and a jolt of pleasure shot straight to her quim when she saw that he was watching her. Their eyes locked, but there was no sensible thought to leak between them. His hand found her head, pulled her mouth down the length of him until there was no more to take. She worked her mouth around him, watching his face. Reveling in his expression. She sucked, and he squeezed his eyes closed, his other hand finding a place on her head.

She opened her throat to him and let him take over. One hand braced against his hip, reminding him to be gentle (or at least gentle enough so that she didn't chip a tooth, which would be painful for them both). The other cupped his balls gently, then moved back, moved up. She inserted one finger into his anus, and his hips jerked. He froze and moaned, his head falling back. She grinned around her mouthful of cock, edging her finger ever so slightly further in. He gasped, quivering under her hands, her mouth. She sucked, pulling her head back along his shaft until he popped out of her mouth, then ran her teeth along the underside, blowing cool air along the length of him before sucking him down her throat again. He came with a roar, hands clenching into her hair, cock bottoming-out against the back of her throat.

Hermione swallowed his hot come, pulling back, removing her finger from him. She stroked his thighs again, moving her head as she licked and sucked. Finally, he was still under her hands, lying back boneless against the gargoyle.

She smiled, and put him to rights. Trousers buttoned, shirt tucked in. Frock coat buttoned all the way down, robes clasped properly again and smoothed down into place. Every inch of him the same as it always was, the unapproachable professor. Or at least he would have been if he wasn't lying back against the statue breathing like he'd just run a marathon.

"Gods, Hermione," he said, finally standing up. She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

"What does that have to do with anything?" She smiled in a decidedly sultry manner before canceling her spells on the alcove and heading for the nearest bathroom.

She ended up arriving to his Defense class two minutes late, which hadn't been part of the plan. She'd had to spend more time than she'd counted on wrangling her hair back into its bun after he'd had his hands in it.

"You're late, Miss Granger," he growled when she walked into the classroom. Malfoy tittered at her. "See me after."

Blood rushed through her body, which was good because she'd appear to be blushing. She might have been blushing. If she was, however, it was a blush of anticipation. The things running through his mind, just what he wanted to do to her alone in his classroom … she shivered and took her seat, doing her best not to look at him.

The class dragged on. Severus spent most of it behind his desk lecturing. Even during the lesson, she couldn't have told anybody what it was about. Severus asked questions, and she was called on to answer at least one of them. Nobody looked at her strangely and Severus didn't deduct points, so at least some of her brain must have been working. Most of it was counting down to the end of class, though.

Finally it was over. The bell rang. Students filed out. Harry and Ron both gave her apologetic looks, then high-tailed it out of the room, abandoning her to her fate. When the last student left, Severus flicked his wand at the door and it slammed shut.

"You were _late_ to my _class_," he said. She would've thought he was thunderously angry, except she could feel the tenor of his emotions, the thoughts running through his head. He wasn't angry. He'd spent the class hiding his erection behind a desk.

Hermione stood, casting a Silencing Charm on the room, and walked toward his desk. She hadn't planned on staying after class. She'd planned on getting to Arithmancy early and working on Runes homework so that she'd have more free time with Severus after dinner. Instead, she shimmied out of her knickers and let them fall down her legs, kicked them off as she walked up to the front of the room.

She walked around the desk, and Severus surged to his feet. His lips slammed into hers in a bruising kiss. His hands undid the buttons on his coat, opened his trousers. He pushed her back, sweeping scrolls of student work and his marking ink off the desk so that he could lay her down on the work top. She arched her back, lifting her skirt and holding her knees out so that she was open for him.

There was a frozen moment in time. Severus looked down at her dripping quim, tracing her sensitive folds with a single finger.

Then he was on her, in her. He fucked her with abandon. She was gasping for breath, hanging onto the desk for all she was worth, pushing back against his every thrust. Somebody was shouting "Harder!" and she was only half surprised to realize it was her. He complied.

"Yes!" She came screaming, and he followed her over the brink with a bellow.

Severus sat back in his desk chair when he'd recovered enough to move off her. Gently, he pulled her skirt down to cover her, his hands lingering on the backs of her thighs. She felt her skin prickle with goose bumps, her quim tighten with the beginnings of new lust. She sat on the desk, putting her feet on the seat of his chair on either side of his hips, smiling fondly. His hands rested on her knees, then moved to stroke her calves.

Hermione laughed when she saw the time. "I'm going to need a pass to Arithmancy."

"You don't need to go to Arithmancy," he said petulantly, fixing one of her knee-high socks that had begun to slip down. "You could have a mastery."

He Summoned her underwear, though. Plain white cotton knickers, nothing special. He even held them out to make it easier for her to step into them, but she took them from his hands and slid into his lap, straddling his thighs.

"You're going to be even later than you already are," he said.

She kissed him, sliding her hands beneath his robes and opening his frock coat, then pulling back so that she could see what she was doing. She balled up her knickers and put them in the inside pocket of his coat, then buttoned the coat and robes again. She kissed him one last time, a lingering, open-mouthed kiss, and rose, adjusting her skirt. She felt brazenly naked without knickers, his come beginning to leak out of her.

His eyes were dark. He was frozen for a long moment, then he closed his eyes, fighting to get himself under control.

"Shit, Hermione," he said, pressing a hand to the pocket where she'd hidden her underwear. "You really are going to kill me."

She cast a Cleansing Charm on herself and made sure her remaining clothes were in place while he wrote out her pass. When he handed it to her, she kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"I'm not going to be able to walk right tomorrow," she whispered, lips brushing his earlobe. He groaned, and she could see the tent rising in his trousers.

She hurried away before he could grab her again. She'd already missed almost ten minutes of Arithmancy.

"I love you, you ridiculous temptress," he said just before she opened the door. She flashed a smile back at him, then dashed away.

Arithmancy was awful. Professor Vector accepted the pass with a sympathetic look and directed her to the proper page in the workbook. The calculations were easy, and she couldn't bring herself to pretend otherwise. Despite her late arrival, she was the first to finish and thus the first to leave.

Potions was after Arithmancy, and that was almost as bad. Slughorn boomed and grinned. Hermione decided she really didn't like him. It wasn't just his blatant favoritism; it was a simple, genuine gut-feeling of simply not caring for him at all.

The bell rang and she fled with the rest of the students, headed for dinner. She stared at Severus throughout. At one point, Harry nudged her and suggested she stop before he noticed.

"I get you're mad at him for making you miss part of your class, but you're going to make it worse."

Little did he know that Severus had spent most of dinner staring back at her. She'd begun by suggesting dark corners they could ward themselves away in, excuses they could use. He'd quickly trumped all of her ideas.

_I am going to tie you to my bed_, he'd informed her. _And then you're going to discover the full advantage of being married to a Potions Master._

She put in a perfunctory appearance in the common room after dinner. Severus had a staff meeting until eight, anyway. That left her with over an hour of time to kill. She read Harry's Transfigurations essay for him, but not very thoroughly. He had the theories down in a very general sort of way, at least.

Hermione claimed a headache at ten to eight and went up to her dormitory. It was, thankfully, empty. She pulled her hangings closed and put a clumsy Silencing Charm around them, a clear message to her roommates to leave her alone. Then she Disillusioned herself and went back downstairs, slipping easily out of the common room. And then it was everything she could do to keep from running to the dungeons.

Severus was waiting, back early from his meeting. He sat in his reading chair, but rose when she entered and pulled her into his arms, plundering her mouth with his tongue.

"I believe you had a plan?" Hermione asked, when they parted. His hands slid up under her skirt, probing naked flesh. She'd considered putting different knickers on while she'd been doing homework in the common room, but that had felt like cheating.

"Hm," he hummed agreement, his hands leaving her body and going to the clasps of his robes. He pulled them off with a flourish, draping them over the chair, and she did the same with her robes and sweater before following him into the bedroom.

He'd stripped the bed of blankets and pillows. All that remained was the fitted sheet. A flick of his wand and a loop of soft cloth hung from each bedpost. She was trembling with anticipation. She began to unbutton her shirt, but Severus stilled her hands, looking down at her with wary eyes.

"What is it?"

"You need to tell me if this makes you uncomfortable," he said. She tossed her head, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

"Don't let the uniform fool you, _Husband_," she said. "I'm not a blushing schoolgirl."

"That's not what I mean," he said gently, moving around her and gathering her hair into his hands. He braided it loosely with deft fingers; he was full of surprises like that.

"What _do_ you mean?" she asked when he'd finished, turning so that she was facing him again. He was unbuttoning his frock coat, his eyes on the buttons instead of her.

"If you're only doing this because you think it's a good idea of a birthday gift to let me tie you down and have my wicked way with you—"

"Severus," she cut him off sharply, stilling his hands on his buttons with hers and waiting until he looked at her to continue. "There is very little you could do to me that would make me uncomfortable. I don't like pain—I don't really get off on being spanked, and definitely not on being whipped—and I've never tried anal—though, to be honest, you could probably talk me into it if you wanted it. I know my limits. And I trust you.

"Yes, I _do _think it's a good idea of a birthday gift to let you tie me down and have your wicked way," she grinned at him, pressing closer. "But I wouldn't do it at my own expense."

"I just—"

"I know," she said, going up on her toes to kiss him. She helped him off with the coat, pausing to put it on a hanger and stow it in its place in his wardrobe. He watched her quietly as she moved around his room, and she wondered what he was thinking but wasn't nosy enough to pry. Not at the moment.

"Did you know I've stopped drinking?" she asked him after the silence had built between them and she had begun to wonder if they'd ruined the mood with their serious talk. Of course, this particular topic wouldn't help the mood much.

"What?"

"Well, I shouldn't say that I've stopped drinking. But I've stopped drinking with the purpose of getting so absolutely shit-faced that I can't remember why I can't sleep."

Severus sat on the edge of the bed, taking her left hand in both of his. The ring he'd given her bisected a pair of scars along her bone. She'd put it on before she'd left her dormitory (because it was his birthday, and because she missed having it on her hand).

"I didn't even do it on purpose," she continued. "I hadn't actually realized I'd done it until a week or two before Christmas. That was when I went to the Ministry and got the marriage license."

He looked up at her, an eyebrow quirked.

"I think about you every night before bed, Severus. I wonder how your day went, and what you had for dinner. I hope that you're getting enough sleep, that you haven't been Summoned. Where I used to start drinking at suppertime and just keep going until there was enough quiet in my head to sleep without nightmares, I just filled my head with other things instead. With you."

"That's awfully romantic," he said, trying to sound disgusted. She smiled, pressing the hand that he wasn't holding against his cheek.

He pulled her hand until she stood between his knees, then wrapped his arms around her waist and turned his head sideways so that he could hold her to him. She leaned down and put her arms around his shoulders.

When they parted, she kissed him, and he turned it into a burning kiss, stoking her fire back up to a full flame. She rested her forehead against his, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

"Okay, Severus," she said, stepping away and heading for the nightstand on his side of the bed. He had a line of little potions all set up. "What do you have in store for us?"

"Ah, the spoils of my misspent youth," he said, joining her. He stripped out of his shirt and trousers, standing next to her in only his boxers. She tossed her shirt aside and picked up the first bottle, turning it in the light and watching the viscous liquid inside slowly move around.

"A throat tonic?" She raised an eyebrow at him. If he was making some jab at the regularity with which she seemed to have his cock in her mouth…

"Not quite," he said, taking the potion from her and setting it back with the others. "That one's for after, actually. It's for chafing. We've been a bit more active than usual today, and, I don't know about you, but I plan to be able to walk tomorrow without broadcasting my predicament to the world."

She laughed, sitting down on the edge of the bed and crossing her legs. "Agreed."

He pointed to the first vial at the other end of the line of potions. "This one is an aphrodisiac, plain and simple. Applied topically." He pointed to the next. "Warming lubricant, also topical. I don't think we'll need it, but it tastes fantastic when it's combined with this one—" He pointed to the next vial, which had an elaborate glass stopper in the top. He looked away from the potions and the heat in his eyes made her glad she was already sitting down. "—which I plan to drizzle all over your body and lick back up."

She launched herself at him. He'd been waiting, and he caught her. He hefted her into his arms, urging her to wrap her legs around his waist. She attacked his mouth with hers, dragging her hands over his shoulders and back. He deftly unhooked her bra, pulling it away, then crushing her to his chest.

Gasping, they parted. Hermione wondered when they'd made it back onto the bed, but it didn't really matter.

She held first one hand and then the other out as he wrapped the lengths of cloth around her wrists. When he was finished, her arms were spread just above her head, thrusting her chest up for him. Severus slowly, tenderly, moved her hair, which had come a bit loose from the braid he'd put it in, out of her face, tucking it behind her ears. His fingers kept going from that touch, trailing down her neck, tracing the round curve of the side of her breast. When he came to the top of her skirt, he lay down beside her, putting his head on her stomach, and slid his hand beneath the skirt.

He touched her, slowly, drawing it out. He circled her clit, never quite touching, never dipping further to where she wanted him. She tried to hold herself still beneath him, but her hips moved into his hand of their own accord. He smiled, kissed the skin next to her naval, and withdrew his hand.

Hermione would have protested, but his next move was to take off her skirt, sliding it down over her legs. She watched, panting, as he secured one ankle, then the other. She could think of a half a dozen spells of varying violence that could unbind her, but couldn't think of a single reason to use them.

Severus stood at the foot of the bed, his hands braced on the footboard like he'd been in the hospital wing when she'd been stabbed by her own knife. This time he wasn't hanging his head, though. This time he was looking at her with hungry eyes, raking in every inch of her body.

She wanted to say something sexy and alluring, but words failed her. "Well?" she asked. He smirked, walking around the bed and picking up the first of the potions.

He used the cap of the aphrodisiac to measure out a dose. Instead of swallowing it, he held it in his mouth and brought his lips to hers. His kiss tasted the way Amortentia smelled, and she prayed it would never end.

When he finally drew away, all her nerve endings were humming with pleasant anticipation.

_It's a good thing I'm tied down._

He smirked at her thought, and turned to the next potion, the lubricant. It was a thick cream, and he scooped a small bit onto two fingers, then smeared it down his chest, stopping when his hand found the waistline of his boxers. He scooped more up, rubbing his hands together, and started at her neck. She could feel it soaking in, heating up, leaving her skin slightly slick.

His hands were everywhere, drawing hot lines across every part of her body. She writhed, pulling against her bindings to try to shift closer to him. He kept determinedly on, cupping her breasts, kneading them, getting fresh handfuls of cream just for her nipples. She was moaning, keening, begging him wordlessly to both stop and never stop.

He made his way down her chest, across her stomach, down each thigh. Then back up to her quim, and he quickly brought her to her first orgasm. He spread her labia, coating her folds in the cream, dipping inside, mixing the slick heat of the lubricant with her arousal.

When her body stopped convulsing around his fingers, he moved again, sucking in harsh breaths.

"Severus," she said, wishing she could grab him, could kiss him, could drag off his boxers and impale herself on him. "Please. This isn't just about me. You need to—"

"This is entirely about you," he interrupted, pausing to kiss her. The kiss didn't last long enough. "Besides," he said, pressing his cock to her side so that she could feel his arousal straining against his boxers, "don't think for a moment I'm not enjoying this."

She whimpered, trying to rub against him, but he moved away. He put the lubricant back on the table, unstoppering the last potion. He tipped the bottle and poured the tiniest splash onto one nipple, smearing it around with a finger. She turned into the touch, trying to move closer, trying to get more out of that single finger.

Then he replaced his finger with his lips, suckling the nipple into his mouth, and she arched against the bed. He laved at her nipple, letting it slip between his lips, licking across it, then sucking it back into his mouth. She was gasping.

His finger, the one he'd used to spread the last potion on her nipple, came up to her lips as he drew away from her breast, and she sucked the finger into her mouth. He was right; the combined lubricant and potion tasted amazing. It wasn't something she could pin down, say it tasted like warm popcorn at her favorite movie or blueberry pie. It defied definition, changing with each thought.

Severus groaned as she suckled his finger as she'd done his cock not so many hours ago, his head falling forward as he watched her. She wished she could touch him, but the waiting was delicious in its own way.

He began pouring the potion over her body. It was syrupy, slightly sticky. He drizzled it over each breast, coating each nipple. Lines of it down her stomach, in her naval, across her hips. He drizzled the potion across her mound, then spread her and poured more inside. It was cool, refreshing, against the warmth radiating from the lubricant.

"And now we begin," Severus said, and lowered his face to her throat.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

January gave way to February. It was cold, dreary and wet, though the snow had mostly melted around the school. Purplish-gray clouds hung low over the castle and a constant fall of chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. It was a nightmare jogging even the short stretch between the castle and the greenhouses for Herbology.

The bright spot for most of the sixth years was beginning of Apparation lessons. Hermione was just glad they took place in the Great Hall instead of outside.

Hermione walked down to the Saturday morning lesson wondering just how she was supposed to pretend not to be able to Apparate without splinching herself.

The Great Hall was changed from its usual. The House tables had been removed, leaving a large open space. The Heads of House stood at the front of the room with a small wizard she didn't know. The man didn't seem to have eyelashes, which was kind of off-putting. He had wispy hair and a generally insubstantial air, as if he might just vanish before their eyes.

_Are you prepared to watch me fail spectacularly?_ Hermione asked Severus as she took her place with her House mates. He almost smirked.

_I am looking forward to the show_.

"Good morning," the Ministry wizard said, cutting off their silent conversation. "My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be your Ministry Apparition instructor for the next twelve weeks…"

Hermione bit off a groan. Twelve weeks. It had taken her one week, one, to get the hang of it under Minerva's guidance. Holding in her scowl, she arranged herself with the others, putting extra space between them. Severus swept by, marshaling students into position and breaking up arguments, touching his hand low on her waist as he passed her.

"Harry, where are you going?" Hermione asked when she noticed him taking off for the other end of the hall. She'd been hoping she would be close at hand in case he splinched himself. She might even be able to take care of the injury before anybody else noticed it had happened.

He didn't answer. Within a minute he'd found a place at the very back, just behind Malfoy. Hermione could feel a headache blossoming behind her eyes. She caught Severus's eye and jerked her head toward her wayward friend. He shared her sour look, then nodded and turned away.

"The important things to remember when Apparating are the three D's!"

Hermione wondered if she could splinch herself intentionally. Just a little bit. Just enough to get out of the lesson, since she couldn't keep a proper eye on Harry anyway, and duck off to get some pain relief from Severus's bathroom cabinet.

They made their first attempt. Hermione spun on the spot, then looked around to see if anybody needed help with missing body parts. There had been no splinching. Most students looked relieved, and more than a few were laughing at each other. The next few tries yielded the same results.

On the fourth attempt Susan Bones screeched. She'd left her leg where she'd begun and the rest of her was in the hoop. The students nearest her backed away, horrified. The Heads of House descended, there was a flash of purple smoke, and she was whole again. Rather anticlimactic, Hermione thought, considering the lengths that had to be taken when somebody was Apparating more than a few feet.

The rest of the class passed without incident. Nobody Apparated, but nobody splinched themselves either. Twycross ended the lesson with an elaborate show of Apparating to the far end of the Hall, and reminded them about the "three D's." Minerva walked him out.

"I think I felt something the last time I tried—a kind of tingling in my feet," Ron was telling Harry when she came even with them, and she knew she wouldn't be able to talk to them about it without laughing.

"I expect your trainers are too small, Won-Won," she said, smirking, trying not to smirk, and hurrying along out of the Hall. Severus had been in earshot, and she could _feel_ the mirth coming off him. It wasn't helping her maintain her ruse.

\\\

The next few weeks were torture. Harry had taken to following Malfoy around on the Marauders' Map, meaning Hermione couldn't sneak out to be with Severus. Her high points during the week as February became March—transitioning from wet into windy and wet—were stolen moments before and after Defense, even if it was just a half a minute of direct eye contact to talk silently. They hadn't managed more than the briefest kiss since his birthday.

The general tension in the castle was on the rise as well. People were disappearing, some of them families of students. Through the Order, Hermione knew that a few of the disappearances had been people going into hiding, but that wasn't true for all of them. She was increasingly nervous for her own parents.

Dumbledore cancelled the March Hogsmeade weekend. Ron was furious—it was supposed to have taken place on his birthday—but Hermione couldn't disagree with the judgment. Students outside the castle would be a weak point, a target. And Harry would be one of the students; even if she'd gone with him and kept on him like a Niffler on a gem there were no guarantees.

Ron's birthday came, and Hermione didn't get him anything. She was supposed to be mad at him; she hardly spoke to him, after all. And she hadn't been able to think of anything to get him. Something to do with Quidditch? A planner book?

She knew something was wrong the moment she made the common room, but there was nothing to do. Lavender Brown was in tears, being consoled by the loyal Parvati, both of them muttering darkly about Romilda Vane, of all people. And then neither Harry nor Ron was at breakfast. After exchanging a look with Severus, she went looking for the boys.

They were nowhere to be found. Hoping they'd turn up, she went to the Great Hall for the Apparation lesson, but they didn't show up for that either.

_Ron and Harry are both missing. Lavender Brown is having fits, so they're probably together somewhere_, she informed Severus, choosing a wooden hoop at the front so that she could stand right in front of him and have unobstructed eye contact.

Severus exchanged words with Minerva, and the Gryffindor Head of House left the room. The lesson crawled on. Hermione couldn't bring herself to even pretend to try; she just stared into the center of her hoop. Severus passed her more often than necessary, brushing his mind with hers. She appreciated the gesture, but she felt impotent and it pissed her off. The whole point of her being in the castle, acting this part, was to keep Harry safer than he'd be without her. What was the point of it? He ducked off without her all the time, he always had.

Hours later, she sat silently by Ron's bed in the hospital wing. Harry and Ginny talked the poisoning over endlessly. She half listened, knowing precisely who the poisoner and intended victim had been, and fumed. Harry should have brought Ron to her, not Slughorn. She could've sorted out the love potion without much thought, and then they never would have been near the poisoned drink. Slughorn probably would have ended up dead, drinking it alone by himself, of course. She wasn't in the castle to look after Horace Slughorn, though.

"But you said Slughorn had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas," Ginny was saying. "So the poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore."

_Well of course he was._

"Then the poisoner didn't know Slughorn very well," Hermione scoffed, realizing from the looks she received that she had been awfully quiet. She was too used to being the ignored one in the corner of Order meetings, apparently. She still had to adjust to being Hermione again, not Sam. "Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he'd keep something that tasty for himself."

"Er-my-nee," Ron croaked, and they all fell silent, watching him for further signs of life. Hermione itched to cast diagnostics over him, to check on him herself. She sat on her hands, relaxing a fraction when Ron started snoring.

Hagrid burst in a moment later, dispelling any tension that might have been brewing. Hermione ignored the conversation, more conspiracy theories. She had to tell Harry about the Time Turner. He had to know. He couldn't keep running off like that, and, really, he was bound to find out eventually, at the very least when the war was over. She didn't want to have this secret between them.

When Harry and Hagrid rose to leave, she went with them.

"It's terrible," Hagrid said as they walked. "All this new security, an' kids are still getting' hurt… Dumbledore's worried sick… He don' say much, but I can tell…"

"Hasn't he got any ideas, Hagrid?" she asked, wondering how much the headmaster had shared. Hagrid was loyal to a fault, and he had a good heart, but he didn't keep secrets very well at all.

"I 'spect he's got hundreds of ideas, brain like his," said Hagrid. "But he doesn' know who sent that necklace nor put poison in that wine, or they'd've bin caught, wouldn' they? Wha' worries me," he said, lowering his voice and checking the hall for eavesdroppers, "is how long Hogwarts can stay open if kids are bein' attacked. Chamber o' Secrets all over again, isn' it? There'll be panic, more parents takin' their kids outta school, an' nex' thing yeh know the board o' governors…"

The Ravenclaw ghost drifted past and Hagrid didn't speak again until the long-haired woman was out of sight.

"…the board o' governors'll be talkin' about shuttin' us up fer good."

"Surely not?" Hermione asked, worried. That seemed like a ridiculously stupid thing to do. Where would the children go? Where would they be safe? Especially the younger students and the Muggle-borns.

"Gotta see it from their point o' view," Hagrid said heavily. "I mean, it's always bin a bit of a risk sendin' a kid ter Hogwarts, hasn' it? Yer expect accidents, don' yeh, with hundreds of underage wizards all locked up tergether, but attempted murder, tha's diff'rent. 'S'no wonder Dumbldore's angry with Sn—"

Hermione jerked, looking at Hagrid sharply. He stopped in his tracks, looking guilty.

"What?" Harry asked quickly. "Dumbledore's angry with Snape?"

"I never said tha'," Hagrid said, but his expression gave him away entirely. "Look at the time, it's getting' on fer midnight, I need ter—"

"Hagrid, why is Dumbldore angry with Snape?" Harry was practically shouting. Hermione revised her plan. She wouldn't tell him everything about her Turning. Definitely nothing about her closeness with Severus, and sharing her marriage had never crossed her mind.

"Shhhh!" Hagrid looked both nervous and angry, glancing up and down the hall again. Hermione flicked her fingers, casting Severus's _Muffliato_. "Don' shout stuff like that, Harry, d'yeh wan' me ter lose me job? Mind, I don' suppose yeh'd care, would yeh, not now yeh've given up Care of Mag—"

"Don't try and make me feel guilty, it won't work!" said Harry forcefully. "What's Snape done?"

_Married your best friend. _Hermione thought madly._ Surprise!_

"I dunno, Harry, and I shouldn'ta heard it at all! I—well, I was comin' outta the forest the other evenin' an' I overheard 'em talking—well, arguin'. Didn't like ter draw attention to meself, so I sorta skulked an' tried not ter listen, but it was a—well, a heated discussion an' it wasn' easy ter block it out."

"Well?"

"Well—I jus' heard Snape sayin' Dumbledore took too much fer granted an' maybe he—Snape—didn' wan' ter do it anymore—"

"Do what?"

"I dunno, Harry, it sounded like Snape was feelin' a bit overworked, tha's all—anyway, Dumbledore told him flat out he'd agreed ter do it an' that was all there was to it. Pretty firm with him. An' then he said summat abou' Snape makin' investigations in his House, in Slytherin. Well, there's nothin' strange abou' that!" Harry had looked to Hermione significantly, and she hadn't needed Legilimency to see that his mind had gone straight back to Malfoy. "All the Heads o' House were asked ter look inter that necklace business—"

"Yeah, but Dumbledore's not having rows with the rest of them, is he?" asked Harry.

"Look," Hagrid said, fidgeting with his crossbow. He snapped it accidentally. "I know what yeh're like abou' Snape, Harry, an' I don' want yeh ter go readin' more inter this than there is."

Hermione looked away to hide her tender smile. She'd seen more than one instance in Severus's mind where Hagrid had helped him up to the castle, or even just pulled him into his hut for a quiet cup of tea before he went on to report to the headmaster. They weren't quite friends, not like Severus was with Minerva or even Flitwick, but they were both loyal to Dumbledore, fond of each other.

"Look out," Hermione said, noting Filch's shadow bearing down on them. She cancelled her _Muffliato _just in time for the caretaker to catch sight of them.

"Oho! Out of bed so late, this'll mean detention!"

"No it won', Filch," Hagrid said shortly. "They're with me, aren' they?"

"And what difference does that make?"

Hermione wanted to hex him.

"I'm a ruddy teacher, aren' I, yeh sneakin' Squib!"

Hermione and Harry hurried off, leaving the pair to their argument. They passed Peeves on their way to Gryffindor Tower, but the poltergeist ignored them, drawn to the shouting. The Fat Lady was asleep, and Hermione considered taking advantage of it to drag Harry off to an empty classroom, but his mind was clearly on the news of Severus's fight with the headmaster. She bid him goodnight, went far enough up the steps to the girls' side so that he wouldn't see her Disillusion herself, then went back down to make sure he didn't try to sneak off by himself.

He and McLaggen—good God had she really taken him to that awful party?—talked a bit about Quidditch, then Harry went up to his room. Hermione quickly went up to her own room, taking her time putting on her pajamas and brushing her teeth. She sat behind her hangings for almost an hour, at which point Harry _must_ have been asleep. She put her shoes back on and wrapped herself in her fluffy white bathrobe, then went back down.

Hermione spent twenty minutes warding the common room—not for security but for detection. Harry Potter would not slip away in the early hours without her knowing about it.

The portrait of the girl in a white summer dress wearing a daisy crown, the one she'd noticed watching them whenever she, Harry and Ron had sat up late talking over the years, glared at her. The portraits didn't usually speak unless spoken to, at least not in the common room. Hermione glared back, then Disillusioned herself. She had to speak to Severus before she slept, no matter if the girl in the daisy crown ran off to report a student out of bed to Minerva.

She wasn't surprised to find him awake; she was surprised to find him drinking.

"I thought that was my vice," Hermione said, dropping her Disillusionment and wrapping her bathrobe tighter around her. It was cold in the sitting room; he hadn't lit a fire.

"Well," Severus said, holding the tumbler in front of his face and staring at the light through his drink, "it seemed called for."

"Testing your own supply?"

"I dumped the bottle he gave me for Christmas."

"Good. It was shit."

"The principle of the thing," he agreed, nodding. She wondered how much he'd had, but it didn't actually matter. She poured herself a few fingers more than strictly polite and joined him in the other wingback.

"Rumor has it you rowed with the headmaster." The whiskey burned her throat pleasantly, heating her from the inside out.

"How—? Oh, Hagrid, then? And I suppose he let it slip to Potter. Typical."

"He really can't help it, you know," Hermione said, turning so that she could rest her back against the arm rest. She slipped off her shoes and tucked her knees up to her chin, holding them loosely to her.

"I know."

They were quiet for awhile, drinking their whiskey. She'd brushed his mind in greeting even before she'd dropped her Disillusionment, and he'd latched onto the contact like twining his fingers through hers when they held hands.

"How are you, Severus?"

"I miss you," he said. He glanced over at her, then knocked back the last of his whiskey and stood up to refill it. He topped off her glass even though she hadn't really made a dent in it. She took a deep swallow and didn't speak again until the burn had faded from the back of her throat.

"It's a good thing I left the Time Turner in Edinburgh. Some days, it's all I can think about. How easy it would be to just grab you and Turn back the day, or the year, more. Hide away someplace and just hang on to you, dread the day we catch up to ourselves again."

"That sounds wonderful," he said, letting his head drop back against his chair.

"We would buy a house somewhere off where nobody could find us. I imagine we'd argue about how much of the garden should be for potions ingredients and how much for vegetables."

His breath hitched and she looked up to him, expecting him to be laughing at her mad fantasy, but he was crying.

"Severus? What is it?"

"That sounds perfect," he said, reaching out and putting his hand on her knee, squeezing gently. "I wish I could be there for it. I wish I could see it. I wish I could hope for it." His voice cracked and he looked away. She grabbed his hand before he could take it away.

"This is my little fantasy, Severus. You're always in it. In the house." She squeezed his hand, leaning over to set her tumbler on the floor by her shoes so that she could use her other hand to trace the lines of his bones. He had long bones in his hands, long fingers to match long arms. "It's _our_ house. That's what makes me want it."

He'd given up any pretense and was crying openly, if quietly. His whole torso was arched forward over his legs, as though he wanted to curl up but couldn't quite muster it.

"I don't want to do it anymore," he said to his knees. "That's what Dumbledore and I argued about. I told him it was too much, that I had to be done. I can't take it. I can't kill him."

"Severus," she said, her heart breaking for him. She crawled into his chair with him, taking his tumbler away and setting it on the floor. She held him close, shifting so she was mostly on the arm rest and holding him to her so that his head was on her chest, her feet braced on the cushion by his hips, her knees off to either side of his chest awkwardly. She clung to him and stroked his hair.


	21. Chapter Twenty

**A/N: I'm traveling this week and most of next week, so here's a bunch of chapters... pace yourselves!**

* * *

Severus hadn't been at the Quidditch match, but he wished he had been. Not only had the Lovegood girl done the commentary, but Potter had spent most of the game shouting at his Keeper. Then the Keeper had commandeered a Beater's bat and sent a Bludger straight into Potter's face. He could've used a match like that.

Instead, he had run around the castle trying to corner Draco to no avail. Then, just after dinner, he'd been Summoned. It had been an informative but dull evening—Yaxley had been charged with infiltrating the Ministry but had not made much progress since the Aurors had tightened internal security, and thus it had been Yaxley that the Dark Lord had vented his frustrations on instead of Severus.

To top off the horrible day, he'd gone to Dumbledore's office to make his report and found the headmaster unconscious in his sitting room. It was obviously the curse. He'd rushed Dumbledore to the hospital wing, and he and Poppy had tried their best for almost a half an hour before the other Heads of House were called. The curse was in his blood and it was spreading, and Poppy said there was nothing to be done. They were treating symptoms, nothing more.

"Minerva," Severus said slowly. "I think you should go get Granger."

He glanced at Poppy, who nodded and sat down.

The Transfigurations Mistress looked up at him across the bed, her expression pinched. After a moment's hesitation, she nodded and left the ward.

"But what can Miss Granger do?" Flitwick asked, wringing his hands. The Charms professor had taken a seat in the chair by the bed. Poppy had the seat on the other side of the bed. The latest attempt had been something with a clever little charm to his shoulder, changing something in the way the headmaster's blood circulated; it hadn't worked, but it had tired the pair of them.

Severus didn't answer, turning to begin pacing instead. These two could keep a secret, certainly. He was more concerned about Hermione's reaction to the outing—she'd had enough trouble in his and Minerva's classes in the past month. It was difficult for Minerva not to treat her like a friend, and it was difficult for him to remember to cut her essays to shreds when all he really wanted to do was borrow her source material. She was a fair actress when it came to it, cutting off her spells halfway so she wouldn't appear too far ahead of the class in practical application.

But it was Dumbledore. They couldn't leave such a resource as her untapped. He'd sent her to Alexandria, after all. She'd studied curses and curse-breaking. And she was a Healer.

Hermione arrived in Minerva's wake, looking the very image of the model student. She had her student robes buttoned up over her weekend clothes, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked as though she'd been doing homework in her common room, if the smudges of ink on her right hand were anything to go by.

_What's happened?_ she asked him with a glance.

_He's comatose. I found him in his office._

_The curse?_

_Yes. It's spread up to his elbow now, but Poppy says it's getting into his blood. _

_So the timetable has shortened, then._

_Yes. There is no way he will make it past August at the very latest._ They'd been hoping for November, maybe even December. That would put Potter back in the school for his seventh year before things went to hell. Give them a better starting point, his being of age and therefore not as traceable by the Ministry (and the Death Eaters, since they very nearly controlled the Ministry, and definitely would do so once Dumbledore died).

Hermione cast her familiar diagnostics with a twitch of her hand, ignoring the confused professors.

"What have you done so far?" she asked Poppy. She pulled off the long black student robe, laying it over the foot of one of the beds. She had blue jeans and a white t-shirt on under the robes, clearly displaying the Cruciatus swirl in the crook of her elbow.

She usually maintained a Glamour to hide the little tells of her age, but she dropped it when she set the student robe aside. He felt something unclench in his guts; _there_ she was. His wife. She didn't look like his wife so much in the student robes, with the Glamour in place and the false brightness in her eyes. It grated on his nerves. The blankness in her eyes now wasn't much better than the false innocence. He missed the Hermione that drank whiskey with him in his sitting room and then held him, cried with him.

It would've been better if she'd been able to take Polyjuice Potion made from her younger self's hair, but they'd never collected any.

"There isn't much _to _do," Poppy said, picking up the clipboard on the bedside table and looking it over. It listed the potions and charms they'd used, and the reactions from them. She handed it to Hermione, who looked it over, eyes scanning quickly, nodding as she went.

"And the initial point of contact was his finger, correct?" she asked him and Severus nodded. She had already known the answer to that; they'd spent hours debating the curse via letter over the fall term. They'd both wanted to research further, to test a few of Hermione's hypothesis developed after her studies in Alexandria, but the headmaster wouldn't hear of it.

_Well now he's comatose._ Severus thought petulantly. Hermione looked at him with a smirk in her eyes.

_He can yell at us later._

She pulled the familiar wallet-sized fold of leather out of a pocket and returned it to its original size and shape, her satchel. She opened it and inserted her arm to the shoulder, searching for something. Flitwick cooed over the charms work from afar, curiosity thoroughly piqued. Sprout had spotted the swirl on her elbow and was frozen, staring.

Hermione extracted a total of four books, tossing the first three aside and quickly skimming through the index of the last one. Before long, she and Poppy were deep in a debate that went right over Severus's head, though he caught the general thread of it. They were talking about blood and blood vessels, mostly, and something about the magical components of bone marrow.

"Severus," Hermione said, spinning to pin him with a look. "Can you combine phoenix tears and ground bezoar without creating a poison?"

"Yes," he said, eyebrows drawn together. "There would need to be a—very specific—amount of hippogriff milk added as a base to counterbalance. The bezoar would need to be ground in gold with glass."

"My point was not that it couldn't be done, but that the counterbalance—hippogriff milk, apparently—would take more time than we have to calculate," Poppy said. She set the clipboard down on the bedside table with a clatter.

"We'd need to call Septima," Minerva said nervously. "And… the headmaster didn't want anybody to know about you anyway."

Hermione glanced at the Transfigurations professor only briefly before Summoning ink and parchment from her satchel, beginning to scribble. The Arithmantic nimbus began forming in front of her before she was done with the first line, wildly spinning, forming and reforming with each stroke of the quill. She paused, grabbed one of the books she'd discarded earlier, and flipped to a page somewhere in the middle, reading a few lines before going back to her scribbling.

Not five minutes later, the cascading nimbus had resolved into a perfect pyramid of lines and points. Each shining point was a glowing blue rune, the lines between the solid white of a balanced equation.

Hermione flicked her wand, dispelling the visual representation of the equation and handing the parchment to him. He could only vaguely follow the figures and formulas covering the page in her neat hand, but he knew enough to see that the work was absolutely correct.

"Four ounces," he read, looking at the bottom of the page.

"I told you," Hermione said. She had produced a hair elastic from somewhere and was ruthlessly tying her hair back into a bun. "Enough Arithmancy for a mastery, if he'd let me take the test." Her glance at the headmaster wasn't bitter, exactly, but it wasn't overly friendly either.

Severus shook his head, handing the parchment to Minerva so she could pretend to check the equation, too. Hermione began pulling ingredients out of her bag, standing her little black box of Healing potions and supplies on the bed by her discarded robes and opening its wings, rifling through the jars.

"I have bezoars somewhere," she muttered.

Severus Summoned his own kit from his chambers, walking over to Poppy's cabinets in the meantime to fetch the cauldron and other supplies he'd need. Grinding the bezoar would be tedious with a glass pestle, but it would reduce the likelihood of contamination that silver or pewter would introduce.

"Do you know if he was doing anything on his own to treat it?" Hermione asked. "Anything for the pain, even?"

"No," Severus said.

"No, he was very careful about what he was doing. He said he didn't want anything to fuddle with his brains," Poppy said. "He wasn't taking anything for the pain. Just the potion you made him, Severus, to keep it contained."

There was a numbing element in that potion for the pain specifically because the old man would never willingly take anything for it otherwise. Proud old fool.

His things arrived from his chambers, and Severus set to work in his impromptu Hospital Wing lab. He'd transfigured one of the beds into a work table.

The hippogriff milk would be the base. Then add the paste made from the ground bezoar and phoenix tears. That would have to simmer for awhile, until the whole concoction was the consistency of yogurt. Then he could start adding the rest.

"One or two?" Hermione asked, holding a vial up for Poppy's opinion.

"Two," the mediwitch said, resigned. Hermione merely nodded and took out a second vial. She was lining things up on the bed with her robes and satchel, giving them a clear, quick shot for Summoning. He recognized Blood Replenishing Potion and Essence of Dittany, among others. Poppy picked up the wide roll of felt and unwound it, revealing narrow tools with flat heads; cauterizing irons of varying sizes.

The potion wasn't that complex; the hardest part had been combining the bezoar and phoenix tears without them counteracting each other, and Hermione had neatly taken care of that. When it was finished, he turned to watch the two Healers at work.

They had stripped Dumbledore to the waist and tucked his beard out of the way over one shoulder, revealing a pale, skinny torso, hairless, darkened by bruising that spread from his right shoulder. It was clear to see that the dark of the curse ended just above his right elbow, but he was bruised with reaction to the curse all the way up his arm, solid gray and purples, then faded bruises in greens and yellows across his chest. The curse was spreading, turning his veins black as it went. The black veins shot out from the darkness at his elbow, snaking down his forearm and making his hand look like a piece of stone.

"When was he last conscious?" Hermione asked, flicking her wand over his hand, repeating a complex movement several times until a ghostly representation of what looked like his circulatory system appeared over the hand, then over the rest of the arm, then over his chest and head. They could see his blood pumping, too slowly, and the movement all the more sluggish in his cursed limb. (Severus couldn't be sure if that was a result of the earlier charms or of the curse itself.)

"Three hours, twelve minutes ago," Poppy said, consulting one of her old diagnostic charms still floating near his head.

"Do you have any undiluted Dittany?" Hermione asked, glancing from Poppy to Severus and back.

"I do," Sprout said. Severus nodded to her; he didn't have any, which meant that Poppy didn't either. The Herbologist flicked her wand, Summoning the required medicine. A minute later, the small vial of what looked like mucus-y gruel was in hand.

"I just want to confirm that I'm understanding correctly," Minerva said hesitantly. Hermione had borrowed one of Poppy's aprons and was tying it around her waist, finally looking her age. Poppy had taken an Invigorating Draught and adjusted the pins in her hair. "You're… removing the cursed area?"

"We're amputating his arm right here, yes," Hermione said, indicating a point halfway down his upper arm, several inches above the solid black-gray. Sprout looked like she might be sick. Flitwick looked like he'd never seen any of them before in his life. "It's the best chance of his regaining consciousness."

"I warned him it would come to this months ago," Poppy said, her annoyance clear in her tone.

Hermione pulled another bezoar out of her kit and placed it on the bed next to her other things, then squared her shoulders. Severus's guts were rolling around inside him, and he couldn't imagine she or Poppy was feeling any better about what would happen.

"The curse that started in his hand has hit his bloodstream. That's why he's showing pain in other places in his body, I think," Hermione said, indicating something in the floating diagnostics, presumably pain. Severus had never been good at interpreting them; he was usually the one in pain and didn't need a diagnostic to tell him where it hurt. "We can remove the arm and buy him some time. Maybe a few months if we're lucky."

His colleagues looked resigned, sad. Poppy looked stricken, exhausted. Hermione was just blank. He reached out to her with his mind, but she was Occluding and his mind slid off hers like oil and water.

"You don't have to, Poppy," Hermione said softly into the silence that had followed her last statement. "I'll do it. It's alright."

She eased the mediwitch to the chair next to Flitwick, then took her place on the opposite side of the bed near the cursed arm.

"Does anybody have anything to say before I begin?" Hermione asked. Severus slammed his own Occlumency shields up. It wouldn't do for the others to see any of his emotion now, not if they were to believe he had betrayed them later. He kept forgetting that he would have to do that. He really didn't want to do it.

What would happen if Dumbledore died now? Died from a mysterious curse he wouldn't tell anybody about before he could be murdered. What would they do, then?

Hermione nodded, and then she flicked her wand. The bed turned from a bed into a surgery table, raising up to a more workable height for Hermione. The sheets and mattress were gone in favor of a metallic slab, wider than the bed had been. Hermione used the extra space to lay the arm out.

Severus stood at the foot of the surgical table, thinking of all the times he'd lay on a table under Hermione's wand. He had always come out the better for it, at least. She was quite good. Calm, collected, knowledgeable.

Hermione conjured a strip of cloth and tied off his arm below the shoulder, twisting it tighter and tighter before securing the tourniquet. She did the same just above his elbow. Then, she probed the arm with her fingers, watching the glowing representation of the circulatory system as she did. He didn't see any change, but Poppy was nodding and Hermione seemed pleased with the result (or lack thereof). Then she took a deep breath and jabbed her wand, casting a Slicing Hex. She had to cast it once more to cut through the bone, and then the arm fell onto the table with a thunk. Sprout gagged.

Hermione burned the arm away to nothing with what could have been a regular _Incendio_, but Severus knew better. Fiendfyre was one of her specialties. He wondered if anybody else would notice.

With her workspace clear of the arm, she began moving more quickly. Constantly looking up to check the circulatory representation, to glance at the other diagnostics hovering in place by Dumbledore's head. She had charmed gauze floating nearby, darting in to swab away the blood from her field of view and replacing themselves with fresh gauze as they became saturated.

There was blood everywhere.

She Summoned the bezoar and shoved it in the headmaster's mouth, massaging his throat until he swallowed. The headmaster looked less gray, but he was beginning to go pale from blood loss.

Hermione cleaned the wound with a saline solution, then applied a butter-yellow cream to the rawness. Dumbledore began convulsing, but Hermione just gritted her teeth and kept working. Poppy sat up, holding the headmaster's chest and head still to keep him from hurting himself. His legs twitched, but feebly, like he didn't have the energy for a proper seizure.

Hermione applied more of the cream, then began chanting. One of the books from her bag was hovering near her and she was reading off the chant, drawing a precise zigzag pattern in the air near the wound in time with the words.

Black globs began trickling out of the wound. It looked like clots, or maybe reddish-black slugs. They were too dense, though. Oily. They had a sheen to them that made Severus glad he didn't have to touch them. Hermione incinerated them as they fell to the table.

Finally, there appeared to be no more globs. She let the book drop to the floor, the slam of it startling a squeak out of Flitwick, and Summoned a Blood Replenishing Potion. She poured it slowly down Dumbledore's throat. His color didn't get better so much as stop getting worse.

Hermione chose the smallest cauterizing iron, heating it with a word, then set to work with iron and wand. She was doing something delicate with the blood vessels, sealing them. The longer she was at it with the iron, the less the gauze shot down to swab away the blood.

Hermione looked at her diagnostics and the circulatory representation again, nodding to herself, ignoring everything in the room but Dumbledore and her tools. She was bloody up to her elbows, and it was splattered across the borrowed apron. Her hair had begun to escape from its bun, but it wasn't in her way yet.

She cast several spells on the stump, then Summoned the potion Severus had mixed earlier. She'd had gauze soaking in it as it had cooled. Hermione packed the site with the treated gauze, then wrapped the whole thing in clean bandages. She cast spell after spell on the stump, the bandages, then dribbled half the second vial of Blood Replenisher down Dumbledore's throat.

Finally, Hermione cancelled all the diagnostic spells and recast them, glaring at them as though they held the secrets of the universe. She Summoned her parchment from earlier, flipped it over, and used the blank side to write out a few more calculations. She got blood all over her quill and the parchment, but she didn't seem to notice.

Hermione nodded at long last, setting parchment, quill and ink aside. She Summoned the last of the potions from the bed, slowly coaxing the headmaster into swallowing them down. Severus recognized them—that one to keep him from going into shock, those two to prevent infection, that one for the pain, that one to speed up healing, the last half bottle of Blood Replenisher.

And then she stepped away. She flicked her wand at the table, removing the blood and then returning it to its bed form. A few more moves of her wand and the empty potion bottles were in the closest sink washing themselves. His brewing equipment was doing similarly, except for the little gold mortar that had to be cleaned by hand.

"If everything worked the way I think it should have," Hermione said, glancing at the second page of arithmantic equations, "he should wake up inside an hour."

She walked away then, going to the second sink and beginning to scrub the blood off her hands and arms. The room was quiet while she did so, scrubbing roughly with the brush to get it from under her fingernails, then turning the brush on her wand. She removed the bloody apron, spelling it back to its usual pristine state, and then she looked as though nothing had happened.

Severus looked at the others in the room, trying not to feel—proud—of his wife. Or at least not let it show.

Sprout was crying, eyes following Hermione as she came back down the ward to them. Flitwick was staring at the headmaster, deep in thought. Poppy was tidying things, fussing over the headmaster, pulling his blanket up and smoothing his beard down his chest, collecting the potions—more Blood Replenisher, something for the pain, Dreamless Sleep (though he wouldn't take that one)—for later. Minerva was sitting on the bed Hermione had used as a work table, watching all of them the way Severus was; their eyes met and they shared a weak smile.

Since it was done, Severus let himself relax, dropping his shields. He leaned back against the bed across the aisle from Dumbledore, not surprised when Hermione settled next to him mirroring his stance. Their shoulders touched.

Nobody seemed to know what to say. They all watched the headmaster.

Dumbledore stirred not two minutes later. He blinked, peering around, seeing his lack of an arm and then searching the faces around them until they came to rest on Hermione. He might have smiled, but it was hard to tell.

"I knew sending you back for that was worth it," he said, quite as clear as if they had been sitting in his office having a nice conversation about it. And then he dozed off, snoring lightly.

Hermione snorted, standing up and crossing to the other bed. She packed her things back into her kit, then into her satchel. She pulled her robe on; once she had the latches done up on the front, and with her Glamour back in place, she looked just as she had the previous morning taking notes in his Defense lecture.

It was likely the headmaster would sleep for a few hours, and then be back up and around as if nothing had happened. That was his way. If he had further instructions, they would come in their own time.

"That's ridiculously unfair, you know," Minerva said, her amused tone surprising Severus. He looked up at the deputy and saw her focused on Hermione, her expression matching her tone.

"Professor?" Hermione asked in a passable imitation of her younger self. Swotty, confused, eager to right whatever wrong she had caused. Minerva shook her head, now smiling outright.

"I could not have passed for sixteen at your age," Minerva said.

"It's the robes," Hermione said, indicating the uniform. "They nicely hide the scars, and, really, who would be trying to look past what they expect to see?"

Severus rolled his eyes. Those were the exact words the headmaster had fed her when he'd told her the plan. She had not been amused. Except for the part where they were sometimes able to sneak kisses in at the end of a class or in a dark alcove every few nights, there were very few benefits to pretending to be a student.

Hermione left them in the quiet, then, disappearing from the curtained-off area by the headmaster's bed and silently making her way past her sleeping friends in their beds down the ward. Severus hoped she would go straight to his sitting room and wait for him.

\\\

"What is it?" she asked, her voice husky as she leaned into him. She was his reward for Dumbledore's amputation. The Dark Lord assumed that the amputation had been a drastic, unnecessary measure suggested by his spy. It was more than a month past now, but he was still reaping his rewards.

"Contraceptive," Severus murmured back, smirking suggestively at her. She grinned, tipping the potion down her throat and falling back on the sofa with a happy groan.

Severus stepped back, resisting the urge to wipe his hands on his robes. Her name was Marcella and she was a Death Eater groupie. Her father was a half-blood and her mother was a Muggle born; Severus suspected Marcella's sympathy with the Death Eaters stemmed from her mother's abandonment, leaving her father for a Muggle man when Marcella was a teenager. He didn't know the exact details; she'd been a few years behind him at Hogwarts.

The potion wasn't really contraceptive, of course. He called it Liquid Quickie, mostly because he'd been eighteen when he developed it and hadn't bothered to think of a better name since. It was what it sounded like; a potion that put the drinker into a trance state while they went through sex in their mind with the man or woman they expected to be having sex with.

"Oh, _Severus_," Marcella groaned from the sofa, her hips twitching. He sneered at her, disgusted.

He'd come up with the potion to make his fantasies of time with Lily feel more real, but it hadn't quite worked. He'd been able to work himself into the proper state of self-delusion that she was the one who featured in his potion-induced experiences, but it had felt too much like rape. He'd used the potion recreationally in his twenties, but it was a bit depressing after awhile. Now, he never left the house without it on his person just for this reason.

Severus had absolutely no desire to have sex with any of the Death Eaters or the other hangers-on like Marcella. The Dark Lord fostered an environment of reward and punishment—if somebody did well, they were given fifteen minutes in the back sitting room with the person he felt they'd like best; if somebody did poorly, they spent fifteen minutes on the floor at his feet suffering whatever curse he liked best. Severus couldn't do much about the punishment, but the pleasure was a different matter. Hold the woman close, whisper in her ear that he was giving her an aphrodisiac or contraceptive, and she got ten minutes of whatever her imagination could conjure of him. He had worked out the kinks (heh) of the potion over the years, making the women more vocal to further promote the story for those listening at the other side of the door, making the images in their minds more vivid.

Disgusted with the situation in a detached sort of way, Severus unbuttoned his robes and untucked his shirt, running his fingers through his hair until it was properly disheveled. A flick of his wand, and Marcella's hair and clothes were similarly messy. He Summoned her knickers, letting them fall to the floor near the sofa rather than touching them.

She was close to coming now, if her little whimpers were anything to go by. He sighed, getting ready for her to come out of it. He stood close to the sofa. When she screamed her climax, he gave a low groan for the listeners, locking his expression into a satisfied smirk to keep from giving anything away; he could hear the whoops of their audience on the other side of the door.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she grinned up at him. "Well aren't you something," she said, breathless. He swallowed the bile that had risen to his throat and continued smirking. She smirked back at him.

He wanted to do a squirmy disgusted dance like a little girl whose brother has just shoved a worm in her face, but instead he held the door open for her. They went out, returning to the Dark Lord and the room beyond. The meeting had continued in their absence; a few had already left. That was a good sign.

Marcella pinched his bum as goodbye, going through the far door to whatever it was she did when she wasn't spreading her legs for Death Eaters. He continued to look self-satisfied and well laid, wondering idly how Lucius was rewarded for a job well done; the Dark Lord surely didn't dictate when he and his wife had sex…

The Dark Lord spoke for awhile, still high on the idea of Dumbledore walking around with only one arm. Severus stood in his place, back straight and eyes on the Dark Lord's hem.

"You may go," Voldemort finally said, and they went. Even those of them currently in favor didn't dare linger.

He got a few slaps on the back from the men as he left the room, and a seriously nauseating look from Bellatrix. He'd never been stupid enough to go with Bellatrix, even when she had been younger and less crazy.

He Apparated to the castle gates, buttoning his coat with a flick of his wand. It had been a meeting with the inner circle, so there had been no cloaks and masks, luckily. He had a weird paranoia that he would Apparate back to the castle in full Death Eater regalia only to be witnessed by a student, or worse, a colleague who didn't know he was a spy.

"Alrigh, Perfessor?" Hagrid called. The half-giant emerged from the forest, his daft hound leaping around in the snow behind him. Severus smiled; he really did genuinely like Rubeus Hagrid.

"More or less," he replied. Hagrid had found him near unconscious at the gates more than once in the last few years. He'd carried Severus to the hospital wing and waited for him to wake up. "And you? Out in the forest tonight?"

"Yep," Hagrid said, holding out a handful of unicorn hair. "I's the easies' time fer collectin' the hair off the bushes an' such. Catches the moonlight, see."

And he did see. The unicorn hair shimmered prettily in the moonlight. Severus smiled, shaking his head. Hagrid was probably the only person in Britain who found it so easy to collect unicorn hairs. They were practically priceless for all their uses—wand cores, potions ingredients, not to mention the simple strength of them when incorporated into rope or similar. Hagrid always had a hank of it tied to one of his rafters.

"Got time fer tea?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid," Severus said, pulling his cloak closer around him. "I need to speak to the headmaster before bed."

They walked up the path together. Severus wondered if Hagrid hadn't been out waiting for him, and the unicorn hair had just been an added bonus.

It was moments like this one that made what was coming all the harder to think on. He hadn't made any headway with Draco, which meant another botched attempt was imminent, and it was all leading to… No. He wouldn't think about it now. Not tonight.

"Goodnight, Hagrid," he said when they reached the point where the path split.

"Night, Perfessor."

Severus hurried up the path and into the castle through one of many side entrances. The castle was quiet. That was the best part about late nights in early March at Hogwarts. It was cold outside, and cold in the halls. Students and staff alike tended to stay in the warm dormitories and personal quarters rather than getting up to mischief.

Severus made his way quickly through the familiar halls, nodding to a few of the portraits that liked him as he passed. He wanted a very long, very hot shower, and his strongest bar of soap. Usually he would go straight to Dumbledore and tell him about the meeting, even if it was all banalities as it had been this night. The Liquid Quickie made him feel like a bastard, though, bringing back the missteps of his youth in full force.

He had been—well, he wouldn't say addicted. He'd experimented with recreational potions quite a lot when he was young. It had made him very popular with the other young Death Eaters, so much that it had cemented his alliance with Lucius Malfoy. He still had most of those old favorites on hand, even indulged in them occasionally, as he had with Hermione on his birthday, but he mostly kept them so he wouldn't have to brew illicit potions on school grounds. The others requested their preferences every so often, and the last thing he wanted to do was explain to somebody at Grimmauld Place why he was brewing a potion in their cellar that made the whole area stink of marijuana (or worse).

His meeting with Dumbledore was quick. Severus made his report, hair damp from the shower— he informed the headmaster that he was still in favor, left out the bit about his reward, and talked over the trivialities until the old man finally waved him off with his remaining hand.

* * *

**A/N: And one last note, because I couldn't not say THANK YOU for all the reviews and follows over the weekend. I was out of town (because that's how I'm spending April this year, apparently), and when I checked my email this afternoon I had 31 updates related to this story, then got 6 more while I was reading the first round. It made for a really nice afternoon!**

**Cheers!**

**—M**


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

It wasn't a nightmare, as such. She never woke screaming or anything like that. There were cold sweats, though. And that sick feeling that lingered for hours after she woke up.

It began in the kitchen. The whole house was creepy, but the kitchen was the worst. It was an old house, lots of exposed stone and grayed plaster. From inside, one expected a thatched straw roof, but it was just shingles.

She'd always felt like she was underground in the house, even sitting by the window in her room upstairs. It was just that kind of house.

The kitchen had been the worst, though. It was actually mostly underground, with an old-fashioned hearth at one end and a long table in the middle; the open pantry off to one side and stairs down to the cellar. It really _was_ just a kitchen, probably the only room in the house that lacked anything legitimately sinister. It was still awful, though.

The dream was just the kitchen, Nothing happened, there was no dreamy sense that she was supposed to do something. It was just the kitchen.

The worst bit was waking up. While the dream was just the kitchen, memories suspended in the wings, everything rushed back when she woke up. The smell of it after—dinner burned, sweat, vomit, blood. Her hands would ache for a moment until she could convince herself it was a phantom thing and dismiss it.

She hadn't felt the ache at the time, or registered the smell. She hadn't noticed how humid it was from the water boiling to nothing on the stovetop. She hadn't felt tired or scared or any of it. No sense of urgency.

She'd been aware or her heart racing, knowing that was the adrenaline. Also knowing that the adrenaline would eventually wear off and she'd be miserable.

There had been no guilt, and she certainly hadn't been appalled at herself. There was a bit of that later, knowing she should feel bad about it and feeling bad that she didn't.

Her first deliberate kill. Murder.

She had retrieved her things from the room upstairs, retrieved her wand, cleaned herself up, put clothes on. She'd gone outside and sat on the bench by the kitchen door. Things would have gone differently if it hadn't been the middle of the night, her sitting out there watching the house burn, but nobody saw her.

She sat and tried to take stock. She knew she was hurt. She'd surprised him—almost as much with her presence as with the physical attack. None of it had been her blood.

She was injured, though. She had felt something break. Not a bone, and not that night. It had been when she was locked away, practicing Occlumency to deaden her senses against it all.

It was like there was a line she had instinctively known better than to cross. A barrier within herself. She didn't know if it was for her own protection and mental well-being, or if it was just a block. (In fact, it was something common to Muggle-borns, a wall blocking the magic left over from when they were very young and confused, insulating against the magic, tamping it down, locking the strangeness away. She wouldn't learn that until several years had passed, though.)

Whatever it was, it was gone now. Shattered.

She hadn't known if she was free of it and better off, or if she was going to hurt for it later. All she'd known that moment was that she was free of him and was definitely better off that way.

\\\

Hermione woke from the dream again, the third time in a week, and stumbled out of her bed for the bathroom, splashing cool water on her face. It was just past three in the morning.

She ached all over. They'd had a particularly vigorous time of it practicing dueling in Defense, and she'd overdone it. She was too old for the leaping and the throwing herself down on the stone floors again and again for an hour. It had amused the hell out of Severus, but she was paying for it now.

With plans to weasel a cup of cocoa out of the house elves in the kitchen and nick something to ease her joints from the hospital wing, Hermione wrapped her dressing gown around herself and headed down the stairs only to stop in the common room. Ron was there, poking morosely at the fire.

"Hey."

"What? Oh. Hi, Hermione."

"What's wrong?"

"Harry had a nightmare."

"A nightmare nightmare, or a vision nightmare?"

"Just a nightmare. But it got me thinking of the vision nightmares. And then I couldn't sleep."

"Hm." She sat with her back to the fire. He continued to prod it, lost to his own thoughts, so she looked out at the common room behind him. It was a pleasant, homey room. Reds and golds glimmered in the firelight, like Ron's hair. When she looked back at him, she realized she'd been more lost in thought than she'd realized: He was watching her instead of the fire.

"You're different since Christmas, did you know that?"

"Er—"

"It's not my fault, is it? I know we kinda had a—well not a _thing_, but not nothing either. Before." He put the poker back in its stand, sitting on the ledge next to her. "It changed, though. I didn't notice it until my birthday, but you're different."

"Ron," she said slowly, then covered her face with her hands because she really didn't want to see his face in that moment. "I think I need to tell you something. And I need you to tell me if you think I should tell Harry."

"Er… Okay, sure."

And she told him. She told him more than she probably should have.

She started with the Time Turner, reminding him of the one she'd had their third year and explaining how the one Dumbledore had given her was different. He didn't ask questions as she glossed over her "adventures" Turning for the headmaster.

"So you're like Harry's bodyguard now?"

"I suppose."

"Do you even like him anymore? I mean, we're just a couple kids to you now."

"Of course I like him," she said, finally looking up at him. She'd told most of her story to her feet. "Ron, the two of you are still my best friends. That's the weird, complicated part of all this. I may have been growing older and meeting different people and doing different things, but I knew the two of you were waiting back here, exactly the same as I remembered you. Even if you didn't know you were waiting for me to get back."

She had to stand up because the heat of the fire was too much against her back. She rose and paced the small clear space in front of the fire. She hadn't told him about Severus, and she'd given him a very abbreviated version of most of it, skipping Remy Bird and the Muggle Fights entirely.

"But you're only at Hogwarts to keep him from breaking rules and stuff."

Hermione snorted, and Ron raised his eyebrows at her.

"My instructions were to let Harry get up to his usual mischief, but to keep that mischief from killing him." Ron looked skeptical, so Hermione sat next to him again, turning her side to the fire this time so that she could look at him more directly. "Do you remember our first year? Fluffy and the Devil's Snare. The giant chess game."

"Of course I remember." Ron frowned at her.

"It was a test."

"What?"

"The headmaster was testing Harry, testing us."

"No…"

"Yes." Hermione sighed and scrubbed a hand down her face, feeling the tingle of her Glamour. After a moment's thought, she dropped the spell. It might hit home better for him if he could see a few of the lines on her face. "Hogwarts might have been a fairly safe place to hide something, but if that was the goal why announce it to the whole student population at the welcome feast? And why drop just the perfect hints into Harry's lap over the course of the school year—Hagrid taking Harry with him to retrieve the Stone at Gringott's, letting us get through the door with a simple _Alohamora_? Not to mention the Invisibility Cloak (which isn't something you give an eleven year old even if it does rightfully belong to him). It was a test."

"Bloody hell."

"Precisely." Hermione let him digest the idea for a moment before she carried on. "I don't think he intended Voldemort to actually be present—he didn't count on Quirrell. But it was a test, hide something and lead Harry to believe that something was in danger, see how he reacts."

Ron stood and paced the space once, then slumped down onto one end of the couch. Glad for the excuse to leave the fireside, Hermione joined him. She leaned her back against the arm rest and pulled her knees up to her chest.

"He's been preparing Harry for the war since he came to Hogwarts."

"That's… That's—"

Hermione could think of far too many words to complete that sentence, and none of them were particularly nice.

"Do you think I should tell Harry about the Time Turner?" she asked Ron bluntly. She watched his face carefully as he thought the question over. He was very good at chess, at strategy games—he was giving it due consideration.

"No," he finally said, though not particularly decisively. "No, I don't think you should. Not right now, anyway."

She nodded. Over the course of telling her story to Ron, she'd come to the same decision. Harry would see it as being left out of more Order business—didn't he deserve extra training up?—or resent her for keeping secrets. Not that not telling him would solve that last bit.

"I think he should know. He deserves to know. It's just… this weird connection to You-Know-Who. His dreams. What if it goes both ways? I hate to think this way—because we're not pieces on a chess board, we're actual people—but wouldn't it be good to have a secret like this? Somebody from the Order close at hand at all times?" He sighed. "I don't like the idea of Dumbledore testing us and training us up without us knowing, but I agree that we can't… It's getting to the point that we're in over our heads. We need… you, I guess."

Hermione seethed for a moment. Most of the trouble that they and Harry had gotten into over the last few years had been a direct result of the headmaster not telling Harry things. Sharing information. Even now, she was keeping secrets from them for the headmaster.

"I need to tell you one more thing."

"Oh, great." She raised an eyebrow at him, and he looked sheepish. "What?"

"I know what a Horcrux is."

"I thought you said it's not in any of the library books."

"It's not."

"Well?"

She told him. He looked like he might be sick.

"It gets worse."

"_How_?"

She told him about Harry, about their suspicions on his connection to Voldemort. Ron went very pale, and sat back against the couch.

"Are you sure?"

"No," she said immediately, but then had to look away. She looked back to the fire. "And yes."

"This is… This isn't fair."

She looked back at Ron, raising an eyebrow again. He met her eyes, and she realized he was mentally comparing her to Severus, recalling that she'd just told him about all the time she'd spent helping him brew. She looked away.

Behind them, the portrait swung open nearly silently. Hermione quickly cancelled the privacy wards she'd put up before telling Ron so many secrets, and put her Glamour back in place.

"You two should be asleep," Minerva admonished. She was wrapped up in her tartan dressing gown, her hair braided loosely over her shoulder.

Ron glanced at Hermione, shared secrets written all over his face.

"You told him, didn't you?" Minerva asked.

"Yes." There was no point denying it.

"The headmaster specifically told you _not_ to tell them."

"And you argued that it would be good for them to know."

"That's beside the point, Hermione."

"What he don't know won't hurt him, Minerva." The portrait of the girl with the flowers in her hair gasped, and Hermione shot her an annoyed look. More than likely, it was the portrait who had gone to get Minerva in the first place.

Minerva didn't look convinced.

"Would you like to me Obliviate him, then?" Hermione asked, producing her wand from the sleeve of her bathrobe. Ron stood up, suddenly looking nervous and wrong-footed. She felt bad about it for a moment, but there was no point.

Minerva sighed. "No."

Hermione nodded and put her wand away. Ron continued to look nervous.

"We've decided not to tell Harry," Ron said after a moment of awkward stillness.

"And why is that, Mr. Weasley?"

"He's, well, he could be a—"

"His dreams," Hermione interrupted, trying to send Ron a quelling look without Minerva noticing. "What if that connection goes both ways?"

Minerva nodded slowly. Ron shot her a questioning look, and Hermione mouthed "later," hoping he could wait.

\\\

Ron didn't seem to know how to talk to her after that. Sometimes, he sought her out with questions on her experiences with the Order, or fed her tidbits of information about Harry's dreams. Mostly, they tried to pretend like things were as they always had been. Harry, luckily, had too many other things on his mind to notice.

There were a few funny moments when Ron would ask her to look over his homework, then freeze in the act of handing over his essay to look at her like she was about to hand him over to Minerva for cheating. For her part, Hermione tried to act exactly the same as she always had. She maintained that following Malfoy obsessively was stupid. She bossed the boys around and reminded them about homework. She watched their Quidditch games and shrugged afterward when they weren't impressed with her lack of interest. She Disillusioned herself when she lingered on the girls' staircase waiting for Harry to go up to his room at night.

"Is there some sort of test you can do?" Ron asked one night in the library. Harry had been a bit suspicious about Ron choosing to go with her to study, but she thought he might suspect that they were trying to secretly date or something.

"Test?"

"Yeah, about the you-know-what. Is there a way to tell if Harry's really one?"

"Not really. If he was a quill or something—an inanimate object—there are spells that determine that. The problem is that they work with souls, showing their presence or not. Harry has a soul of his own, so it would be almost entirely impossible to use those spells to determine if the… _manifestation_ of the spells came from Harry's soul or a piece of _his_."

"Huh."

"I was trying to develop new spells for it for awhile, or manipulate the old ones. It's just not my forte." She'd been meaning to ask Severus to have a whirl, actually. He was very good with that sort of thing.

"Well, alert Binns on that one," Ron said, grinning crookedly at her.

"What?"

"You just admitted that you aren't absolutely perfect at something."

"I'm not absolutely perfect at most things, Ron," she said, affecting her most teenagerly hauteur, primly going back to an essay for Flitwick. Ron laughed.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Hermione said, looking over the note Harry had just handed her. She was sorry for Hagrid, he'd raised Aragog from an egg, but it was an Acromantula not a dog.

"He's _mental_!" Ron said. "That thing told its mates to eat Harry and me! Told them to help themselves! And now Hagrid expects us to go down there and cry over its horrible hairy body!"

"It's not just that," said Hermione. "He's asking us to leave the castle at night and he knows security's a million times tighter and how much trouble we'd be in if we were caught."

It was all she could do not to give Harry a significant look, one that would say _Don't you dare, young man_.

"We've been down to see him by night before," said Harry, and she wished she had given him the look.

"Yes, but for something like this?" Hermione asked. "We've risked a lot to help Hagrid out, but after all—Aragog's dead. If it were a question of saving him—"

"—I'd want to go even less," said Ron firmly. "You didn't meet him, Hermione. Believe me, being dead will have improved him a lot."

Hermione smirked at Ron, glad he was backing her up (more or less), but then she caught the look Harry was giving the note.

"Harry, you _can't _be thinking of going," she said. "It's such a pointless thing to get detention for."

"Yeah, I know," Harry said, sighing. "I s'pose Hagrid'll have to bury Aragog without us."

"Yes, he will," she said, relieved she didn't have to fight him on it. "Look, Potions will be almost empty this afternoon, with us all off doing our tests… Try and soften Slughorn up a bit then!"

"Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?" Harry asked, almost bitter.

"Lucky," said Ron suddenly. "Harry, that's it—get lucky!"

"What d'you mean?"

"Use your lucky potion!"

"Ron, that's—that's it!" Hermione couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it before. She wouldn't have brought it up if she had thought of it, but… "Of course! Why didn't I think of it?"

"Felix Felicis? I dunno… I was sort of saving it…"

"What for?" Ron demanded.

"What on earth is more important than this memory, Harry?" Hermione asked, slightly more sharply than she'd intended. He didn't answer. He'd glazed over, and she had a feeling she knew where his mind had gone: He was thinking about Ginny.

"Harry? Are you still with us?"

"Wha—? Yeah, of course." He was almost flustered; it made her want to punch him in the arm and tell him he was her favorite little brother in the world. "Well… okay. If I can't get Slughorn to talk this afternoon, I'll take some Felix and have another go this evening."

"That's decided, then," Hermione said, glad to have it sorted. That would keep him busy while she Apparated for the Ministry. Mockingly, she spun as she stood. "Destination… determination… deliberation…"

"Oh, stop that," Ron said. "I feel sick enough as it is—quick, hide me!"

"It isn't Lavender," Hermione said, officially tired of him hiding from the girl. She had to share a dorm room with the little idiot, and she was tired of the glares. From both her roommates, actually. She'd been avoiding them anyway, but now it was worse.

"Cool," Ron said, peering over her shoulder at the girls he'd been hiding from. "Blimey, they don't look happy, do they?"

"They're the Montgomery sisters and of course they don't look happy, didn't you hear what happened to their little brother?"

"I'm losing track of what's happening to everyone's relatives, to be honest."

There was something cold in the pit of her stomach. For a moment, she missed Severus so badly that she ached from her hair to her heels.

"Well, their brother was attacked by a werewolf. The rumor is that their mother refused to help the Death Eaters. Anyway, the boy was only five and he died in St. Mungo's, they couldn't save him."

"He died?" Harry asked. He looked stunned. "But surely werewolves don't kill, they just turn you into one of them?"

"They sometimes kill," said Ron. She didn't think she'd ever seen him look so serious. "I've heard of it happening when the werewolf gets carried away."

"What was the werewolf's name?"

"Well, the rumor is that it was that Fenrir Greyback," said Hermione.

"I knew it—the maniac who likes attacking kids, the one Lupin told me about."

She could only look at him, bleak. _Welcome to the real war, Harry. It's not just us at this school, working up to a fight at the end of the year. _

"Harry, you've got to get that memory," she said. She was beginning to think that, even if it led to him finding out about the Horcruxes, it would be good to have the information from Slughorn. The history of Tom Riddle and such. "It's all about stopping Voldemort, isn't it? These dreadful things that are happening are all down to him…"

The bell rang, startling her so badly that she almost pulled her wand.

"You'll do fine," Harry told them, and she remembered that she and Ron were off to take their Apparation Test. Ron looked decidedly green. "Good luck."

"And you too," she said, giving him a look.

\\\

When Harry returned to the common room very late that night, well after midnight, Hermione was in a panic. Ron had gone to bed long before, leaving her with an awkward pat and his most steadfast assurance that Harry could take care of himself. She had the horrible feeling that she should have Disillusioned herself and followed Harry out to Hagrid's.

_Idiot! Idiot, idiot, idiot._ She wasn't sure if she was thinking about Harry or herself.

Finally, he dragged himself back through the portrait hole. He looked… shell shocked.

"Harry?"

"Can we talk in the morning? I'm… really tired."

"We don't have to talk." She pulled him into a hug, wrapping her arms around his ribs and squeezing. He was taller than her, but not as tall as Severus. And his shoulders were much narrower.

Harry was smaller, younger. Still a boy in so many ways, but grown-up, too. Much more grown-up than he should have been. She could see the weight in him, see that responsibility settled behind his eyes.

He didn't cry. He didn't seem angry. He was still so young—it would probably be years before he realized how Dumbledore was using him. Or maybe it wouldn't. He was as likely to die as she was in the coming years. Actually, he was just as likely to die as Severus.

She sent him up to bed before he could see her cry.

\\\

Hermione spent more time in the next month with Severus than she probably should have. First because she was upset, and then because he almost died. If Harry's little stunt in the bathroom had killed Malfoy, Severus would have died for not protecting him. It had shaken her to the core.

And then came the day they'd been dreading.

She hadn't thought anything of it when Harry was called to Dumbledore's office again. He'd left, and she'd stayed in the common room with Ron. Ron had tried to get her talking about what Harry might have in store, the excitement of the evening; she talked about their upcoming exams, asking Ron about his revision until he went off to play Exploding Snap with Seamus and left her to stare into the fire.

Ron had just come to sit by her again when Harry burst in.

"What does he want?" Hermione asked, then saw the look on his face. "Harry, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, racing through the room and up the stairs. She had time to exchange a look with Ron and begin to think about getting up to follow him, but then Harry was back.

"I've got to be quick. Dumbledore thinks I'm getting my Invisibility Cloak. Listen…"

He gave them the details in brief. Dumbledore had located a Horcrux and he was bringing Harry with him. That was good. Dumbledore wouldn't bring Harry along if he didn't have a good idea of what to expect, if it wasn't a relatively safe Horcrux to retrieve.

What the hell was she thinking? A relatively safe Horcrux? There was no such thing! _What the fuck, Dumbledore?_

"…so you see what this means?" Harry asked, bringing her back to the moment. "Dumbledore won't be here tonight, so Malfoy's going to have another clear shot at whatever he's up to. _No, listen to me_!" he hissed. Hermione pinched her lips shut, noting that Ron had been about to interrupt, too. "I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement. Here—" He handed her the Marauders' Map. "You've got to watch him and you've got to watch Snape too. Use anyone else who you can rustle up from the D.A., Hermione. Those contact galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore says he's put extra protection in the school, but if Snape's involved, he'll know what Dumbledore's protection is, and how to avoid it—but he won't be expecting the lot of you to be on the watch, will he?"

"Harry—" she began. She didn't even know where to start. She didn't know how to tell him that a bunch of teenagers were no real match against Death Eaters, not if they had a plan of attack.

"I haven't got time to argue," Harry said curtly, cutting her off. "Take this as well—"

"Thanks," said Ron. "Er—why do I need socks?"

"You need what's wrapped in them, it's the Felix Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too. Say good-bye to her for me. I'd better go, Dumbledore's waiting—"

"No!" She was looking at the potion, suddenly full of dread. Harry had to take it. He was leaving the castle to go after a piece of Voldemort's _soul_, for God's sake. "We don't want it, you take it, who knows what you're going to be facing?"

"I'll be fine, I'll be with Dumbledore." The sheer blind loyalty of it almost physically hurt. She'd been like that once. Back so long ago, when he'd come to her house just before New Year and asked her if she'd be willing to use a special Time Turner to study and do some research that would help Harry. "I want to know you lot are okay… Don't look like that, Hermione. I'll see you later…"

And then he was gone, dashing out the portrait hole.

There were quite a few words that Hermione wanted to say, and all of them would make Ron's ears turn red.

"Well," Ron said, looking from the socks in his hand to her and back.

"Well," she repeated back to him with a bit more conviction. "Do you have your Galleon on you?"

"No."

"Me neither."

They went up to the boys' dormitory and Hermione spread the Map out on Harry's bed while Ron rummaged around in his trunk for the D.A. galleon.

"I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good."

_Oh God, oh God, oh God._

Malfoy was nowhere on the map. Still in the Room of Requirement. Severus was in his office, the dot with his name still behind his desk. He'd be doing his marking, more than likely. They'd had a tentative plan to spend some time together tomorrow night if they could; she'd spent the afternoon finishing her homework.

"Nothing yet," she told Ron. He nodded, screwing his face up in concentration as he pointed his wand at the galleon. Hermione shoved the Map in her pocket without clearing it, and dashed down the stairs then up the girls stairs. Ginny had gone up to get ready for bed shortly before Harry had come running back.

"Hi, sorry," Hermione said, poking her head into the fifth years' dorm. Ginny's roommates gave her annoyed looks. "Hey Ginny?"

"Hermione?" Ginny pulled her hangings open. She looked like she might have just lain down. "What's going on?"

"Get dressed, okay? Meet us in the common room and bring your wand."

"Is everything okay?"

Hermione winced instead of answering and closed the door behind her. She wished Dumbledore had given her more information. Protecting Harry had been her sole mission since term began, and she'd done it. He'd been in and out of the castle, and she hadn't protested his lack of communication once.

Harry had said there was more security in place tonight. What security measures? What had he done? Who should she contact? There was no way Dumbledore would know Malfoy had been celebrating; Harry wouldn't have told him after Dumbledore spent so long dismissing his warnings.

Desperate, she conjured her Patronus and sent it to Minerva: _Harry has the D.A. out of bed. What's going on?_

She didn't get a response. When Ginny joined her, fingers pulling her hair back into a ponytail as she walked, they went back to the common room. Neville and Luna were with Ron, Luna looking vacantly around the common room. Neville and Ron both looked excited, but also like they might be sick.

_Okay_, she said to herself. _Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville. Four to keep track of. Four to keep safe._

God, had she ever been that young?

She wished she'd sent a Patronus to Severus, too.

They passed the Felix Felicis around, and Hermione felt a plan solidifying in her mind. She sent Luna to tell Minerva what was going on, then told her to meet her down at Severus's office. Ginny went to the entrance hall to keep a look out for Harry and the headmaster. Ron and Neville headed for the Room of Requirement.

They parted ways immediately. Ron and Neville took off in one direction, Ginny flew down the stairs, and Luna took a direct right to go to Minerva's office. Hermione went down part of the way with Ginny, but then kept going.

"Severus!" she cried, throwing the door open. She heard him in the bedroom, the rustle of blankets pulled jerkily off, the creak of the bed. He wrenched the door open before she was three steps into the room, wearing only his sleep pants but with his wand held in front of him.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"Harry heard Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement not an hour ago."

"And the headmaster has left?"

"Yes. He took Harry with him."

"You're joking."

"I wish I was."

Severus turned around and began dressing. The room was cold with his Occlumency shields, and she raised her own to keep from bursting into tears.

Hermione looked down at the map in her hand. Luna was still talking to Minerva; there was time.

"It's too soon," she muttered, and realized her shields had slipped. Frowning, she wiped the tears off her face and focused.

"What's happening, then?" His voice was cold. It helped her center on her own blankness.

"I don't know what measures Dumbledore put in place before he left, just that he took some steps."

"He didn't condescend to share that with me, either."

Hermione nodded. Judging from the fact that Severus had been asleep, Dumbledore hadn't even told him that he'd be leaving the school.

"I see Lupin and Bill on the Map, down by the gate."

"Practically outside the school. What the hell are they thinking?"

"Probably that nothing is going to happen. They've been called in for extra support so often this year and nothing has happened…"

"Shit." Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. His shields crumbled, but he put them back in place before he opened his eyes again.

"And there will be Aurors in Hogsmeade. That's standard by now."

"Send your Patronus. Mine won't do."

She nodded and did so, then watched the dots for Lupin and Bill begin to move toward the castle proper. A dot labeled Nymphadora Tonks appeared a moment later.

"Minerva will get the staff up, lock the students in their dormitories."

"Ron, Luna, Neville and Ginny are out," Hermione said, pointing to their dots on the Map. Luna was on her way to the dungeons; they were running out of time.

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_," he said under his breath. _I don't want to do this_. The thought reached her clear as day.

"There," Hermione said, her knees almost giving out. A dot labeled Fenrir Greyback had just appeared in the corridor outside the Room of Requirement. The dots for Ron and Neville were reacting. A dot for Bellatrix Lestrange joined them in the hall. Then Alecto Carrow.

Hermione sent a Patronus to the Heads of House, telling them that there were Death Eaters in the Room of Requirement.

She turned and headed for the door, but Severus caught her before she opened it, pinning her to the wall beside the door with his body. He kissed her roughly, desperately plundering her mouth.

"Try not to die," he growled, black eyes pinning her in place just as surely as his body was.

Before she could answer, he'd turned her out in the hall and closed the door on her. According to the Map, he was pacing on the other side. She jogged down a bit and hid herself, more or less, in an alcove just as Luna arrived.

"Here," she whispered, hoping the girl wouldn't be able to tell how thoroughly she'd just been kissed.

"Professor McGonagall says we should go back to our dormitories," Luna said, but she didn't seem inclined to follow the order. The two of them stood in the shadows, watching the dot labeled Filius Flitwick approach the office at what could only be a dead run.

"Severus! Severus!" he was shouting. He flicked his wand and the door flew open; he darted inside. "Death Eaters! Death Eaters in the castle, Sever—oof!"

Luna darted out of the alcove, Hermione quick at her heels. Severus appeared in the doorway, face blank and cold. He looked at Luna, barely sparing Hermione a glance.

"Professor Flitwick has had an accident. See to him."

Luna dashed into the sitting room, falling to her knees beside her Head of House. Hermione stayed in the hall, meeting Severus's blank eyes with her own blankness, and then he was gone in a swirl of black robes.

Hermione stepped into the sitting room and cast a diagnostic on Flitwick. He'd just been Stunned; easily remedied.

"What? What!" Flitiwck cried, blinking up at them.

"We've been betrayed," Hermione said, feeling the cold radiate off her, wondering if either of them had had Occlumency or Legilimency training, if they'd be able to feel it.

"Oh no," Flitwick moaned. "Severus…"

Hermione stood and turned away, then set off for the Room of Requirement at a run. The Map was harder to read when moving, but a staircase forced her to stop while it shifted and she took a good look. The fighting was centralized near the Astronomy Tower. She started moving again.

She heard the fighting before she saw it. Then there were students running through the halls, in pajamas and dressing gowns, confused. She rounded a corner and there were Death Eaters everywhere. The Order was there, too, and the professors.

Hermione wished she had her knife, the wraps for her hands and wrists. She felt naked in a fight without them. She didn't even have her wand sheath; she was in her school uniform. She shed the robe, freeing herself from the drape of it around her legs and the overlarge sleeves. The skirt and blouse that remained weren't ideal, but at least they wouldn't constrict or impede movement.

First a small gray-haired wizard with a cruel smile; she hit him with a nonverbal _Reducto_ that tore away most of his rib cage. The tall witch who had been beside him turned to avenge him, and Hermione treated her to a left hook followed by _Incarcerous._

And so it went. Hermione never stopped moving. Curses flew everywhere, but she had the Felix humming through her, nudging her. She ducked and weaved. She conjured bindings where she could, leaving a trail of Death Eaters wrapped in rope. She collected wands, tucking them into the waistband of her skirt.

When she finally reached the corridor by the Astronomy Tower, she was only just in time to watch part of the ceiling fall in. She cast the first charm she'd ever learned, _Wingardium leviosa_, catching the huge chunks of stone before they could crush Ron. She flicked her wand, sending the stones careening into the masked Death Eater he'd been dueling instead.

There was dust everywhere. People were screaming, shouting curses and counter-curses. The air was heavy with the smell of blood and smoke.

And then Severus came careening down the stairs from the Astronomy Tower, dragging Draco by the collar. A stream of Death Eaters followed, all of them smiling. Hermione's heart clenched in her chest, but her Occlumency held.

"It's over, time to go!" Severus shouted, his voice penetrating the fighting.

The Death Eaters fell back, beginning to follow Severus. Harry appeared at the base of the Astronomy Tower, looking around, honing in on Severus, then taking off again at a run. Hermione found herself engaged in a duel with a huge masked Death Eater before she could follow Harry. The Death Eater's spells were silent and quick; he almost got her a few times. She got lucky in the end. One of his spells ricocheted off her Shield, blasting back at him. His Shield wasn't quick enough and he stumbled back, giving her time to cast _Sectumsempra_. She didn't stay to watch him bleed.

Hermione tore through the school, following the trail of destruction left by the retreating Death Eaters. They'd run out of people to duel when they'd moved away from the Astronomy Tower, but they'd kept causing damage. Portraits were scattered across the floor, their occupants crying in different frames. Several tapestries were on fire. Curtains ripped to shreds. Windows shattered.

Her Occlumency almost slipped again when she made the grounds. Hagrid's hut was burning, and Buckbeak was swooping down on Severus. _Oh, God. No!_ But then Severus was gone; no more Death Eaters.

Hermione ran for Hagrid's hut. It wasn't Fiendfyre, thank goodness, but it was burning hot. There wouldn't be much left, even if it wasn't cursed fire.

Hagrid himself burst out the door with Fang in his arms, then rushed over to a dark spot on the grass Hermione saw to be Harry. Nobody was screaming, so she figured they would be okay for the moment and focused on the fire. She cast suppressing charms and then conjured water, directing a jet of it at the burning house.

"Yeh all righ', Harry? Yeh all righ'?" Hagrid was saying "Speak ter me, Harry…"

Hermione thought she might be sick. All she could smell was the burning house.

"I'm all right," Harry panted. "Are you?"

They kept talking, but Hermione had moved closer to the hut and couldn't hear them over the crackle of the fire. A moment later, two more jets of water joined hers. At last, the flames were extinguished.

"S'not too bad," Hagrid said behind her. "Nothin' Dumbledore won' be able to put righ'…"

Hermione turned to look at Harry, watched him go still, watched the horror crawl over his face. She closed her eyes.

"Hagrid…"

She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't. Not for him. Not after what he'd made Severus do, after what he'd made her do.

"I was bindin' up a couple o' bowtruckle legs when I heard 'em comin'," said Hagrid. "They'll've bin burnt ter twigs, poor little things…"

"Hagrid…"

"But what happened, Harry? I jus' saw them Death Eaters runnin' down from the castle, but what the ruddy hell was Snape doin' with 'em? Where's he gone—was he chasin' them?"

Hermione turned away, looking back at the smoldering wreckage of the hut so they wouldn't see her tears. It was too awful.

"He…" Harry cleared his throat. "Hagrid, he killed…"

"Killed?" Hagrid's disbelief struck her to the core. Again. So many things tonight were cutting her to the quick. Would anything be left in the morning? "Snape killed? What're yeh on abou', Harry?"

"Dumbledore," Harry said. "Snape killed… Dumbledore."

Hermione was on her knees in front of the hut. Harry and Hagrid kept talking, Hagrid not believing. She couldn't seem to move. She couldn't breathe. She wasn't sure her heart was beating anymore, and her brain had certainly ground to a halt.

_Pull yourself together, you fucker_, she ordered herself. It didn't work.

They left her there. She wasn't even sure they'd noticed she was there, actually. Hagrid hustled Harry along to the castle, patting him along like he was a confused child.

_Dumbledore is dead_, it echoed in her head. _My husband has fled the castle._

She put her head in her hands and cried.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

Hermione went to the hospital wing because she couldn't think of anywhere else to go. She wanted to know if anybody else was dead. She wanted to have something to do. Poppy would surely have more injured to care for than she could handle alone.

The hospital wing was indeed full. Dumbledore was the only one who had died, but there were plenty of injuries. She made her way through the room, going from one to the next, while Poppy focused on Bill. He'd been mauled by Fenrir Greyback.

There was chaos when Harry told everybody how Dumbledore had died, but she just felt empty. She ran out of people to treat, binding an oddly shaped gouge from a curse on Tonks's forearm only to look up and realize it was the last thing.

"—and then Snape—and Snape did it," Harry was saying. "The _Avada Kedavra_."

Madam Pomfrey burst into tears. Hermione couldn't bring herself to go over and comfort her. She was too close to tears again herself, seeing the looks on everybody's faces. Lupin was in the chair by Bill's bed, sobbing. Everybody looked wide-eyed, disbelieving, betrayed.

"Shh!" Ginny whispered, though nobody was talking. "Listen!"

Poppy pressed her fingers to her mouth, quieting her sobs, her eyes wide. Somewhere out in the darkness, a phoenix was singing. It was a stricken lament, terribly beautiful. It sent Hermione over the edge again, and she sat down on the floor where she'd been standing, pulling her knees up to her chest and hiding her face against her thighs.

When the song ended, Hermione felt a little better. She wasn't sure if she'd been for grieving Dumbledore or for Severus, but she knew she was done crying. She was wiping her tears away when Minerva entered the ward.

"Molly and Arthur are on their way," she said. Her entrance seemed to rouse everybody from the spell of the phoenix's lament. "Harry, what happened? According to Hagrid you were with Professor Dumbledore when he—when it happened. He says Professor Snape was involved in some—"

"Snape killed Dumbledore," Harry said. His voice was flatter each time he said it.

Minerva stared at Harry, and then Poppy was rushing forward, conjuring a chair and pushing Minerva down into it.

"Snape," Minerva repeated. "We all wondered… but he trusted… always…" Her eyes found Hermione, locking on. "_Snape_… I can't believe it…"

Hermione realized that she had been wrong. She wasn't done crying. Fresh hot tears were leaking out of her eyes now with Minerva looking at her like that. Sharing the betrayal. They'd had wine together in his rooms at Christmas, had tea and brandy in her office after the first staff meeting of the year.

"Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens," said Lupin harshly. "We always knew that."

"But Dumbledore swore he was on our side!" Tonks whispered. "I always thought Dumbledore must know something about Snape that we didn't…"

"He always hinted that he had an ironclad reason for trusting Snape," Minerva muttered. She was looking at Hermione more shrewdly now. Hermione could practically feel the gears turning, no doubt remembering how Hermione had held his mind together the summer before. Wondering how Hermione could not have known after such an intimate touch of minds. "I mean… with Snape's history… of course people were bound to wonder…" She was dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tartan-edged handkerchief. "But Dumbledore told me explicitly that Snape's repentance was absolutely genuine… Wouldn't hear a word against him!"

"I'd love to know what Snape told him to convince him," Tonk said.

"I know," Harry said. Everybody looked at him. "Snape passed Voldemort the information that made Voldemort hunt down my mum and dad. Then Snape told Dumbledore he hadn't realized what he was doing, he was really sorry he'd done it, sorry that they were dead."

There was complete silence. Everybody stared at Harry.

"And Dumbledore believed that?" Lupin asked incredulously. "Dumbledore believed Snape was sorry James was dead? Snape _hated _James…"

"And he didn't think my mother was worth a damn, either," Harry said, "because she was Muggle-born… 'Mudblood,' he called her…"

_Oh, Harry. If you only knew_, Hermione thought.

"Hermione," Minerva said softly, but it was so quiet in the room that everybody heard. Hermione looked up and found her former Head of House looked intently at her. She couldn't decide if the look was pleading for her to contradict what was being said, or if it was an accusation. "Hermione, you've been in his mind…"

There was a stir of confusion, and Hermione felt the tears well up again. She was dizzy. She almost felt faint, but that was ridiculous. She wasn't a swooning damsel. Damn it all to hell.

She pressed her hands to her face, wiped her eyes, and shrugged weakly.

"I know. You're right." She took a shuddering breath. "I should have known. I should have felt it… He was very convincing, though… and Dumbledore was so sure." She pressed her fingers to her eyes and scrubbed again, wishing her vision would clear. Everything was blurry, nothing would quite focus. "I didn't press him, I didn't look… I should have looked!"

She descended into tears again, and it wasn't entirely an act. Once her shoulders began to shake she couldn't stop them.

"This is my fault," Minerva said, twisting her handkerchief between her hands. "My fault. I sent Filius to fetch Snape tonight, I actually sent for him to come help us! If I hadn't alerted Snape to what was going on, he might never have joined forces with the Death Eaters. I don't think he knew they were here before Filius told him, I don't think he knew they were coming."

"It isn't your fault, Minerva," Lupin said firmly. His eyes were still on Hermione, though; suspicious. "We all wanted more help, we were glad to think Snape was on his way…"

Hermione gasped for breath.

_Breathe, you fucker. Get yourself under control._

"So when he arrived at the fight, he joined in on the Death Eaters' side?" Harry asked. He, like everybody but Poppy, Ron and Minerva, was looking at her like she'd grown a unicorn's horn out of the middle of her forehead.

"I don't know exactly how it happened," Minerva said. "It's all so confusing… Dumbledore had told us that he would be leaving the school for a few hours and that we were to patrol the corridors just in case... Remus, Bill, and Nyphadora were to join us… and so we patrolled. All seemed quiet. Every secret passageway out of the school was covered. We knew nobody could fly in. There were powerful enchantments on every entrance to the castle. I still don't know how the Death Eaters can possibly have entered…"

"I do," said Harry, and he explained about the Vanishing Cabinet.

They spent the next twenty minutes hashing out just what had happened. The Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder that had filled the corridor when the Death Eaters emerged, stopping Ron and Neville from reacting right away. How they'd run into Lupin and Tonks, who'd already found Ginny in the entrance hall. Luna told them about waiting outside the office, rushing in and tending to Flitwick.

"Hermione was quite quick, actually," Luna said, smiling her usual vacant smile. "She knew just what to do to see what was wrong with him."

Hermione didn't look up to see who was looking at her, how many questions were playing across their faces. _Damn the man's secrets. And damn my secrets to._ She was beginning to feel light-headed from all the crying.

They detailed how Severus had rushed through the chaos, bringing them hope. They'd felt like they were losing. Bill was down, Neville and Lupin had tried running up the stairs only to be thrown back by the ward. Tonks had been pinned down.

"We just let him pass," Tonks said, hollow. "We thought they were being chased by the Death Eaters—and next thing, the other Death Eaters and Greyback were back and we were fighting again—I thought I heard Snape shout something, but I don't know what—"

"He shouted, 'It's over," said Harry. "He'd done what he'd meant to do."

They all fell silent. Hermione felt waves of exhaustion crashing over her. She wanted to slink down to Severus's room and sleep for as long as they'd let her. She was so cold.

"Oh, Merlin, Hermione!" Minerva said. "Poppy!"

Hermione had listed to one side and almost cracked her head on the floor.

"Sorry, sorry," she said, putting a hand out to prop herself back up. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"No, look at all the blood," Ginny said. Ron looked green.

"What?" Hermione looked around her, but didn't see what they all seemed to be seeing. "I don't see anything."

"On your back, Hermione."

She scowled. The scars on her back were none of their business; they had no right to be horrified by… Oh.

Oh, God.

"Poppy," Minerva said again, and now the two witches had Hermione under the arms, had her on the nearest bed. Hermione tried to help, tried to crawl onto the mattress a bit. She noticed that her nail beds were blue. That was a bad sign.

Minerva sat next to the bed and held her hand while Poppy stripped her of her shirt and bra. The others reacted to her back, and Hermione wondered how much of it was reaction to the scars and how much was reaction to whatever the injury was.

"Hold tight, dear," Poppy said. "We'll have you right in a moment."

"Why didn't you say something?" Minerva asked, squeezing her hand. Hermione's eyebrows drew together. Say something about what? About Severus? About her injury? About the scars from the damn book?

Something hissed, like the first cup of water tossed over a campfire, and Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from shouting. As it was, a whimper escaped her. She hated it.

Her vision was swimming.

"Poppy," she said weakly. "I think I'm going to…"

\\\

Hermione came around the next morning. She half remembered a strange conversation during which Fleur Delacour made Hermione cry even though she hadn't been a participant. Something about scars showing a husband's bravery. And she thought she might have heard Tonks propose to Lupin.

Bill and Fleur were asleep in adjacent beds, Fleur turned on her side as though she'd been watching her fiancé when she'd finally succumbed to sleep. It was very sweet. Hermione wanted to cry again, but she was too dehydrated.

_I've never cried so much in my life. What the fuck?_

But of course, she'd never had a night quite like that.

Her wand was on the table and she cast a few quick Cleansing Charms, feeling better for it. Then she flicked the usual diagnostics up, though the angle was difficult. She didn't seem to be bleeding out anymore, so she figured she would be okay to remove the bandages and have a look.

The flesh over the left side of her rib cage was red and blistered, ugly white pustules popping up between dark patches of red. A bad burn, then, and it had probably been worse last night considering she'd lost enough blood to pass out.

On the table next to her, Hermione found a mostly empty vial of Blood Replenishing Potion, which she finished off, and a squat jar of brilliantly orange Burn Paste. It was cool to the touch and left her side wonderfully numb. She Summoned a fresh patch of gauze and applied a Sticking Charm to the edges to hold it in place, then swung her legs over the side of the bed.

She stood, surprised when every inch of her didn't ache. She felt like she should ache.

_Severus. Shit, Severus! He was attacked by a hippogriff. Who will see to his injuries? Who will make sure he doesn't bleed out? Please, Merlin, don't let him be lying on my kitchen table in Edinburgh._

Hermione forced herself under control, calling up her Occlumency after a few false starts. She had things to do.

Her school uniform was a wreck, so she'd be sticking with the hospital-issue pajamas. They were loose enough not to bother her side, anyway. Hermione transfigured the sheet into a loose robe, darkish gray and plain. She didn't have any shoes, probably because Poppy was trying to keep her from leaving; she just left barefoot.

First she had to check on Harry. If he was alright, next on the list was Severus. She had to get out of the school and find her husband. Half the point of going back was so that she would be able to help Severus when nobody else would, so that she would have the Occlumency skill to keep his secret even if the worst should happen.

The halls were empty. The air was dusty. The Fat Lady let her in without the password.

The common room was full of sleeping students. Friends curled up together, first years tucked in by the fireplace. Neither Harry nor Ron were there, so Hermione ascended the boys' staircase.

The boys were awake, sitting together on Harry's bed and chatting quietly. They went silent when they saw her. They looked older than she'd ever seen them, despite the bedhead.

"I'm leaving the school for a few days," she said. They were the only ones in the room, so she didn't bother to whisper.

"What? Why?" Harry asked. He'd slept in yesterday's clothes, and the sheets were grimy and smelled of salt water.

"I need to check on a few things."

"For the Order?" Ron asked, almost frowning.

"Yes," she lied. Harry looked between them, eyes narrow. "Ron, will you, er, fill Harry in?"

Ron glanced at Harry. Harry regarded them both suspiciously.

"Can we come with you?" Ron asked, ignoring the look from Harry.

"Minerva would kill me," Hermione said, almost laughing. She flicked her fingers at them, casting her usual diagnostics. They were fine. She breathed a little easier. "Send me a Patronus and I'll be here as quickly as I can. Otherwise expect me the day after tomorrow."

"Hermione—"

"—Harry," she interrupted, holding off a hand to stay off whatever it was he was going to say, but he interrupted her right back.

"—No, listen. It wasn't real."

"What?"

"The Horcrux, the one we went to get." Hermione could see it there, raw in his mind. Dumbledore had drunk a potion, a poison. He'd weakened himself and they'd retrieved a locket. But when Harry had opened it up, there had been a note inside. It was a fake.

R.A.B.

"We'll find it, then," she said, sounding much more confident than she felt. She thought she might throw up. "We'll find it, Harry. Rest now. Send me a Patronus if you need me."

She turned and left before they could ask her anything else. She heard Harry begin grilling Ron for information before she'd even made the steps.

In the girls' dorm, Parvati Patil's bed was empty. Lavender's curtains were open and she was sprawled across her bed sound asleep, tear tracks down her cheeks.

Hermione packed her things with a few flicks of her wand. She wouldn't need any of her school robes or toiletries, so she left them. She took her satchel, filled it with her books and other supplies, and dressed quickly. Jeans tucked into her dragonhide boots, a loose green t-shirt, her dark brown robe with the deep hood.

The halls were still empty when she left. Hagrid's hut was steaming slightly in the cool morning air. She tried not to think about it. She just hurried down the path, then Apparated.

The first place she went was Grimmauld Place. It was a mess; somebody had swept through it quickly, removing traces of the Order. Hermione tidied a bit with her wand, but couldn't bring herself to care much. Severus hadn't come here.

She Apparated to her flat in Edinburgh next. If Severus hadn't gone to Grimmauld, the next logical place was her flat. With Dumbledore dead, he was the only one who knew about it.

She turned the key in the lock and found the place dark. She felt heavy. It wasn't just exhaustion; it was the weight of everything. There was so much to do, but none of it could be done immediately. People needed time to wrap their heads around Dumbledore's death. She couldn't whisk Harry away now. They had to see how things played out…

Hermione had a lot of information that the Order couldn't know, but it was information that needed to be taken into account when they made decisions. She'd have to be sure to be at the meetings. That wouldn't be easy after Dumbledore had kept her so deliberately separate, tucking her into the "student" box that would keep her at the school.

The sound of a key in the lock had her taking a position inside the arch to the kitchen, wand drawn. She'd put the lights out, and her other hand was gently gripping her knife.

Severus entered. He looked absolutely awful. His eyes were empty and he had the beginnings of a beard sprouting along his jaw.

Hermione put the knife back in the holster sheath, tucked her wand away and emerged from the kitchen. Severus took two steps in, holding himself stiffly, as though if he didn't maintain perfect posture he would collapse. His eyes were haunted.

"Severus," she said when the door clicked shut behind him.

He looked up at her, then collapsed to his knees at her feet. His torso curled forward. He was crying. He'd fallen to the floor, and his hands were pressed to his face. He seemed to be trying to push the emotion back in, but of course it didn't work.

"Severus," she murmured, going to her knees in front of him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. It was an awkward angle, but there was nothing else to be done. She could feel the grief and pain coming off him in sharp waves, battering her, bringing her own sadness to the forefront again. He was helpless in his grief, completely at a loss.

It was a long time before they both stopped crying. She'd run dry before he had. When it ended they were sitting together against the wall. She had her arms wrapped around one of his, her head leaning against his shoulder. He just sat there, his head tilted back against the wall, every muscle in his body clenched with tension.

"I hated him," Hermione said into the silence after a long time. "By the end of it, I didn't like him at all."

"I know," Severus said. His tone was as flat and quiet as hers. "Me too."

She tucked herself in closer to him.

"I'm still sorry to have done it," he whispered. "He asked me to do it… but I wish I hadn't."

Hermione wished she could take it from him and put it away in the Unbreakable jar in the felt bandolier, stash it next to Minerva's memory of the night she'd signed their marriage license. That wasn't possible, though. It was a foolish thing to think.

"Are you alright? Physically, I mean," she added when he gave her an empty look. His Occlumency shields, back in place after the first outpouring of grief, were beginning to fray and slip, and she could feel his emotions coming through them like zaps of electricity against her skin. He was so terribly unhappy. Guilt and sadness and fury all bubbling into one, rising like a tidal wave to choke him. She traced the lines of his face with her fingers, shuddering with her own emotions when he leaned into her touch. She cupped his cheek and pulled him down for a kiss, then wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug—there were no words for this. She could only hold him and hope that he understood and that it was enough.

"Narcisssa saw to the scratches," he said, pulling back from her and unbuttoning the cuffs of his frock coat (his teaching robes had vanished at some point) so that she could see. "Not as good as you would have done, but I didn't bleed out."

There were new scars on his forearms, wide pinkish marks where huge talons had rent his flesh. She shuddered, tracing the lines with her fingertips. He was right, she could have healed them without a trace. It was almost better to have them, though; to have evidence, a reminder.

Not that either of them could ever forget.

They sat curled up together in the hall for awhile. At some point, one of them had Summoned a bottle of Ogden's and they passed the time passing the bottle between them in silence.

"I don't think the Order will reform properly. We're fractured now. Not just you off separate, but Dumbledore kept so many things secret from everybody. Harry has his secret task. I have you as my secret. Minerva has instructions, and so do Kingsley and Tonks. I don't know if we'll be able to function properly."

"The Order will have to function properly," Severus said darkly, taking a long drink from the bottle and grimacing. It was mostly empty now. "The Dark Lord will move on the Ministry, and he will be successful. The Order will try to stop him, but without Dumbledore…" He derailed a moment there, only continuing after he'd had a bracing sip from the bottle. "And with the Ministry in his pocket and the Board of Governors under control, I will be made headmaster, as planned. I think he's going to send the Carrows to teach." He shuddered.

Hermione caught a snatch of his memory from the previous night. Voldemort, his snake-like features contorted in an awful facsimile of happiness, had laughed and laughed. The laugh would haunt Severus's nightmares and now hers.

"I really did like teaching," Severus said, maudlin now. She Summoned the bottle of white wine from the counter, opening it for herself while he worked on the Ogden's. "I had to bluster a lot teaching Potions to get the brats to take it all seriously. Potions accidents were the leading cause of student death at wizarding schools for millennia, you know. It wasn't just for keeping up appearances."

She squeezed his elbow, switching bottles with him.

"I genuinely liked teaching." He sounded like he was trying on the statement for size, and looked like it agreed with him. "The students could be annoying, but in the end it was almost always worth it."

They were quiet for awhile. Hermione switched bottles with him again and drained most of the wine. She couldn't particularly taste it.

"I'm going to be torturing them," Severus said quietly. "The students. Literally torturing them."

Hermione pressed closer, situating herself under his arm so that she could wrap one of her arms around his back.

"He rewarded me, you know," Severus said after a long time. "Usually, it's sex. He gives us various women—I give them that Liquid Quickie." She smiled, pressing her face into his coat. He'd told her about the system of punishment and reward before; she'd seen his memories of standing over writhing women trying not to look as revolted as he felt. "This time, he taught me to fly."

They were both quiet for a moment. Hermione sipped her wine and noticed that his bottle was empty in his hand, so she gave him hers and Banished the empty one to the bin. He took a deep pull, making his eyes water.

"I don't like flying," she said, and he laughed.

"I'd heard that," he said. "The one thing you can't do."

"Oh, I can do it," she said defensively. "I just hate it."

"I always loved it," he said, having another drink. His voice was rough from it. "You get away from everything. Just you and the broomstick, up there with the sky."

"Exactly. Just a broomstick!" She shuddered, pressing closer. She wanted to lighten the mood, to steer the conversation to anything else. She wanted to move from the hard floor to the couch or the bed or anywhere else. She wanted to hang onto him and feel him hanging onto her. The memory of his last bruising kiss, when they'd parted and they had both wondered if they'd die before they saw each other again, was pressing on her mind. "Though, to be honest, I've ridden a hippogriff and a thestral, and I didn't cope any better with either of those. I think I might have a problem with heights."

"Or it's a control thing," he observed mildly. She elbowed him in the ribs, and they both laughed.

"We're out," she said maybe a half an hour later. They'd sat in silence, passing the bottle back and forth slowly, lost in their own thoughts. She was even closer to him now. They had their legs spread out across the hall, touching from the hip down. And she was leaning into him, and his arm was still around her.

"But I'm not even drunk yet," he said, looking at the bottle she held up between them. It wasn't a small bottle, and hadn't they been drinking white wine? This was vodka.

"Me neither." She sighed, setting the bottle aside and rolling it away from them along the floor. She felt pleasantly loose, but she hadn't lost any of the sharp edges in her brain. And that had been the whole purpose of the drinking.

She contemplated Summoning another bottle from the kitchen, but she couldn't remember what she had in there. And her ass had gone numb from sitting on the floor; she wanted to get up.

Severus was playing with her hair, twisting his fingers around the curls, separating one out, stroking it with his thumb.

"Kiss me," she said at last, turning her face up to his. He blinked at her, then complied. He used the hand that was already in her hair to guide her face, the arm that was wrapped around her shoulders pulling her around so that she straddled his lap.

His lips were soft and slightly chapped. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he teased her lips apart with his tongue. She sighed. Tongues danced, hands began to wander.

They broke apart, gasping for breath, and it could have been merely seconds or many hours later. Her thighs pressed into his, her sex right on top of his. He was hard beneath her. So hard. She dropped her head to his shoulder, trying to find her equilibrium and failing.

"Bedroom?" she suggested.

Then they were kissing again, and trying to get up. For some reason it was difficult to do both.

They stumbled to the bedroom, and he picked her up around her waist, pulling her down onto the bed. They rolled around for a minute, tugging at clothes and flinging them off the bed until he wound up on top of her. He pressed her down into the mattress. She spread her legs, knees rising on either side of his hips. He trapped her hands in his, raising them to the level of her head. She pressed up, pressed her breasts to his chest, aching for contact. He twitched and his lips left hers for a moment to trail down over her breasts, rubbing the prickle of his beard across her nipples. She moaned, trying to press up into him, encouraging him to suck, but she couldn't get the angle.

She felt his teeth at her breast; he was smiling. Teasing. Her hips jerked against him, and she squeezed his hands.

"Be still, Wife," he said, lips now brushing her neck, the underside of her chin, her lips again. She kissed him for all she was worth.

"No more teasing," she insisted, arching up into him, aching for him.

He broke away a moment later, a hand reaching down to line himself up. She moved her hips to meet him, her freed hand finding a hold somewhere near his ribs, trying to pull him to her faster. He resisted, settling in slowly, his dark eyes finding and holding hers. She took one long breath in, filling her lungs as he filled her and sighed when he was in, stretching her.

He began to move slowly, rocking his hips against hers. They took it surprisingly slowly. There was no urgency, no desperate thrusting together, nails digging into skin. He was gentle, tender. He kissed her, and she felt herself melting.

She lifted her knees to change the angle, squeezing him with her inner muscles. He flexed, shaking, beginning to move faster, push harder, slide deeper. They were breathing raggedly, gasping in time with their movements.

He let go of her hand and crashed down into her, no longer gentle. Their chests pressed together, her legs wrapped around his waist. Skin on skin everywhere. He propped himself on his elbows beside her head and kissed her, tongue and cock probing in syncopated rhythm. He rolled his hips, and began to hit that certain spot within her, driving her closer and closer to oblivion.

She moaned his name as she came. He gave one last grunt, which turned into a long, pleased groan as he exploded inside her.

They lay together after, him pinning her to the bed with his body. She didn't care in the least. He was warm and real, anchoring her to the moment. He smelled like potions ingredients, Ogden's, and sex. His skin was sticky with sweat, as was hers.

"The beast with two backs," she said, laughing. He was still inside her, limp now. Her legs were around his hips, beginning to cramp, but she held him there anyway. He hadn't moved his elbows. His face was buried somewhere in her hair, and she could hear him laugh, too. Then he kissed her, and she melted all over again.

She felt oddly empty when he pulled out, rolling off her to lie on his back beside her.

\\\

Hermione woke a few hours later, judging by the brightness of the room. She groaned, pressing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. Admonishments from her Healer training in France returned to her, lectures on the bad combination of Blood Replenishing Potion and alcohol. She had possibly the worst hangover in her life, and she hadn't even got to be properly drunk first.

Wandlessly, nonverbally, Hermione Summoned two vials of her favorite hangover relief concoction, closing her eyes when the spell made her head throb.

"Here," she mumbled to him, taking the opportunity to press her hand to his pectoral to get his attention. His nipple pebbled nicely beneath her fingers.

She closed her eyes and lay back, giving the potion a moment to work. She reflected on Blood Replenishing Potion. It was useful, life-saving even, but it was hell in combination with so many other remedies. Not badly reactive, life-threatening. Just uncomfortable, inconvenient.

When her head didn't feel like it had a crowd pounding on it with sledgehammers anymore and the light filtering through the curtains didn't pierce her eyes like flaming knives, she sat up.

"Oh, that's nice," Severus said beside her. He sat up, too, the empty vial closed in his fist.

She smirked at him. He looked like a wreck, but more of a hungover wreck than the emotionally overwrought wreck from last night. His stubble had filled in and could almost be called a proper beard. A short, somewhat tufty beard, but a beard nonetheless. His hair was sticking up in every which way. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he was too pale. He looked amazing; he looked groggy and shagged out.

She didn't even want to think about what she probably looked like.

"Good morning," she said, smiling up at him and stretching. The stretch brought her closer to him, and her thigh might have not-accidentally brushed his half erect cock. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"It's mid-afternoon."

"Good afternoon, then," she returned. He smirked at her almost fondly. It made her heart beat faster.

He bent down and gently captured her lips with his. The man could seriously kiss. He was all sliding lips and gentle, probing tongue. He put a hand around the base of her head at the top of her neck, long fingers tickling along her scalp as he did, and directed her head this way and that.

The moment was finally broken by her bladder. "I need to pee," she announced, a little angry about it. It was perfect there in bed. Warm and cozy; they were nestled in an impossible tangle of blankets, and she had no idea where the pillows had got to.

His low chuckle followed her to the bedroom door, sending little shoots of pleasure along her nerves.

She checked her burn after she finished in the loo, finding it much less awful than it had been the last time she'd looked at it. The blisters were gone but it was still pink and red, tender. She went to the kitchen and retrieved the Burn Paste from the cupboard, then Severus applied it for her, mouth set in a grim line.

"Who cursed you?" he asked as he finished, washing the leftover paste off his hands.

"I don't know. I didn't even realize I was hurt until I fell over."

He scowled darkly and made her sit at the kitchen table while he made them tea and toast for breakfast-cum-lunch.

She left after an hour of drawn-out conversation broken up by lovely kisses. She didn't want to leave, and he didn't want her to go. But she had a lot of explaining to do for the Order, and they would be expecting her at the meeting that would surely take place over dinner.

For his part, Severus had been instructed to lay low, relax. He'd retrieved the things he wanted from his home at Spinner's End and suggested she burn it down as a token of solidarity with the Order. And also so that Voldemort didn't make the hated place any worse in his memory than it already was.

"Do you want to come with me?"

"To watch the house burn? Of course I do," he said, kissing her good-bye again. "But there might be witnesses. I can't be seen."

"I know. You're right."

She did up the buttons on her robe—the brown one with the good hood; it buttoned over her torso and fell in pleats to her knees, and the sleeves were close to her arms, buttoned like Severus's frock coat—and pulled up the hood so that her face would be hidden. There might be witnesses, like he said.

"I will be cross with you if you die before I see you again," she told him. She was trying to be light, flirty, but the words hurt to say. He smiled fondly, though, and that made it worth it.

He'd kissed her again, hands stroking down her arms, and she'd left.

She checked the houses and flats she'd used while she was Turning, reinforcing the wards and looking for anybody loitering suspiciously. She considered telling the Order about the houses, but decided it would be better to keep them as a backup plan for safekeeping Harry.

And then she arrived at Spinner's End. It was as awful and dreary as the first time she'd been there. The breeding Dementors didn't help, either; there was cold mist clinging to the roads and buildings like a particularly insubstantial mold.

She didn't go inside; Severus had come and taken what he wanted—books and a few photographs, the important documents he didn't keep with him at Hogwarts. Instead, she took a breath, squared her shoulders, and got to work on the wards. She was familiar with his protections, and they'd been keyed to let her in. It didn't take long to bring them down. Looking around once—the neighborhood was deserted—she cast the Fiendfyre.

It spewed away from her, burning away the mist, heating the air. It made her hair fly back, crackling dryly. Her side, where she'd been burned so recently, flared with heat uncomfortably, but she ignored it.

The Fiendfyre careened into the front door, sending it splintering. The splinters had burned up before they hit the ground. The fire spread from the inside out, then. There were wicked shapes in the flames, but she couldn't quite pin them down, identify the forms. Little flame demons, maybe, climbing the walls and rolling themselves up in the dusty curtains.

The roof caved in, and she heard the first siren. She had maybe five minutes, then another five before the Aurors and Obliviators arrived. She would be gone in three.

The house was a fireball. The air smelled of burning wood and wire, melting plastic and rubber, hot brick. When she couldn't see the bones of the house through the flames anymore, she began subduing the fire. That was the hardest part. The Fiendfyre took on a life of its own, racing on, eating through everything in its path.

She was sweating when the Fiendfyre finally winked out. The house was a smudge of ash between its neighbors. The Aurors would arrive and see that the fire was too destructive, too precise to have been natural. There would be an investigation—maybe more of one than there had been before, considering Dumbledore was dead and Voldemort was taking over the Ministry—but they wouldn't find anything. There was nothing to find because there was nothing left.

Hermione Apparated to Grimmauld Place, but it was empty. There was a note on the front door directing her to the Burrow, and she turned again and Apparated to Ottery St. Catchpole. The wards had been set wide around the Burrow, and she could see many humanoid shapes moving around inside the house as she made her way across the field to it.

Moody accosted her the moment she stepped through the door. He slammed her to the wall with his forearm, wand in her face. She went rigid, not reacting. She clenched her fists at her sides.

"Samantha Barnes," he growled. "Always awfully cozy with Snape, weren't you?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but he jammed his wand tip into her cheek. She closed her mouth and tried not to glare.

"And look at you now." He scoffed. "Some dragon. You should've killed him. Instead, you _flirted _with the traitor."

"He played us," she said. She would not hex him. She wouldn't.

"Yes, played." Moody sneered. "Did you open your legs for him? Let him _play_ you?"

"Alastor!" Minerva cried from the other end of the hallway.

Hermione opened her hand at the last moment so that she slapped him instead of punched him. His magic eye rolled in its socket. She would've popped it if she'd hit him with a closed fist. (Or at least she hoped she would've popped it; that would've been gratifying.)

While the former Auror reeled from the physical strike—wizards never expected an attack from hands or feet, even when they were _constantly vigilant_ for an oncoming hex—she kneed him in the groin and relieved him of his wand. She stood over him while he tried to recover, pointing his wand at his face.

"Do not speak to me," she ordered, voice low and flat. She dropped his wand next to him and walked away. Familiar faces poked around the doorway at the other end of the hall, trying to get a view around Minerva.

Minerva's eyes widened, and Hermione spun. She just had time to cast a wandless shield, holding her hand out as if to physically ward the spell off. The red light of a _Stupefy_ absorbed into the shield with a metallic clang.

Minerva pushed around her, wand in hand, shouting at Moody. Hermione stood where she was, hands at her sides again. She felt empty. She focused on her Occlumency for something to do, strengthening her shields; she wouldn't let him rile her again.

When the shouting died down, Hermione turned and walked into the kitchen. Most of them were pretending not to have heard the altercation, which almost made her smile. Or it would have made her smile if she had left herself feel anything.

"Nobody thinks—what he said," Tonks said, her tone aiming for reassuring but falling horribly short.

"It's just that you always sat down at the far end of the room by him, is all," one of the twins said.

"And he'd talk to you. Without even needing a direct question to pry it out of him," the other twin said.

Hermione nodded. "I was his Healer," she explained, because she'd have to explain it eventually or they wouldn't trust her even after they knew she wasn't Sam Barnes. "I was supposed to watch him. Not just to keep him whole so he could keep…" She cleared her throat. "I should have noticed. I should have known."

_Damn all these secrets to hell. Fuck you, Dumbledore. You asshole._

"Somebody should go watch his house," Mr. Weasley suggested. They had all taken seats in the sitting room. Hermione chose an armchair close to Minerva because she really needed an ally.

"Don't bother," Hermione said, surprised at the despondency in her own voice, the flatness of it.

"What?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"Why not?" Minerva asked at the same time.

"I went there this morning. He wasn't there." She looked at Moody, sulking by the empty fireplace. "I burned it down, like a good little dragon."

"Oh," said Mr. Weasley.

"Well," said Minerva.

The next hour was awful. When it came out that Sam Barnes didn't actually exist, that she'd been Turning through time and Minerva and Snape had been the only ones to know, all hell broke loose all over again.

Moody shouted about lies. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looked devastated. Lupin was shocked.

"Dumbledore instructed me to stay at Hogwarts. To keep Harry safe."

"So that's why you're here, then," Moody said nastily. She turned a cold look on him and was gratified that he quickly looked away, going quiet.

"I don't think he should go back to his aunt's house," she told Minerva. "The Death Eaters will have a general idea of where he is. Snape knew. It will be a nightmare trying to get him out again. We should bring him to a safe house."

\\\

It was late into the night when they returned to Hogwarts. Nothing had been decided. Everybody was too emotional following Dumbledore's death. It had only been a day. They were afraid, and they were acting like it. Moody's lashing out at her was just the most obvious manifestation of it.

Hermione followed Minerva to her office, and they sat together in silence for a long time.

"I thought we were friends," Minerva said at last. Hermione looked up, thinking for a moment that Minerva was questioning Hermione's friendship, but the Transfigurations Mistress had an introspective look on her face. She was talking about Severus. "I knew there was darkness in him. I knew that there were things in his past that I didn't know about. But I never thought…"

Hermione kept quiet. She couldn't speak about this, not to Minerva. Instead, she grabbed the other woman's hand and held on. Minerva squeezed her fingers back.

"What happens here now?" Hermione asked at last. "What happens to the school?"

"We've stopped all the lessons, postponed the exams," Minerva said, grabbing the topic with both hands and hanging on. "Students will take O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s at the Ministry in August, the rest we'll sort out next year.

"Parents have already been in collecting their children. The Patils left almost as soon as the fighting stopped. Seamus Finnegan had a row with his mother in the Great Hall over breakfast; he'll be staying for the funeral, and she's not happy about it."

Hermione wondered what her own parents would think. She knew they'd started getting the _Daily Prophet_ after New Years. They'd never said, but it came across in the tone of their letters, the things they were careful not to say.

"Is there anything I can do to make things easier for you?" Hermione asked. She felt useless. Adrift.

"Just keep Potter out of trouble," Minerva said, smiling even though she sounded exhausted. "We have quite enough going on without his deciding to go off and track down Snape himself."

Hermione laughed aloud at that. The very idea of it.

The laughter died quickly.

* * *

**A/N: The original draft of the first half of this chapter was much more maudlin—there was a dawn-out conversation about sin and vice (the murdering the pair of them have done, and the drinking), but it didn't really move things forward. So instead, they handle their grief by getting roaring drunk and fucking. Sorry?**

**In other news, I'm back home now and the vacation was excellent. I got an idea while I was on vacation, and it stuck in my head so I ended up rewriting about a third of this story (hence the delay in posting). You can expect this to be back to the two-a-week schedule until further notice.**

**Cheers!**

**—M**


	25. Chapter Twenty-four

The funeral came on with a mob of important witches and wizards taking rooms at Hogwarts. The Minister for Magic was in the building, as was Madame Maxime from Beauxbaton's Academy and a handful of other Ministry officials.

It didn't take much persuasion to get Harry to avoid the lot of them. He didn't want much to do with anybody, actually. He had pulled his friends around him like a cloak, spending all his time with her, Ginny and Ron. The weather was wonderful. They went for a lot of walks, finding a nice little clearing just off the path around the lake where they could sit out of sight of the castle.

They visited the hospital wing twice a day. Neville had been discharged but Bill was still there. Poppy glared at Hermione whenever they visited, insisting she pull up her shirt so that Poppy could look over the still mending flesh across her ribs. It was mottled and red, but the blisters were gone, as were the red streaks where her skin had been torn open by whatever curse she'd been hit with. The others would chat to Bill while Poppy smeared the orange Burn Paste across the affected area.

Ron was trying to be tough. Harry wouldn't look at her straight—Ron had left out the bits about Horcruxes when he told her story, and that meant Harry couldn't properly understand why she'd chosen to tell Ron but not him.

"Anybody we know died?" Ron asked her, forcing brashness into his tone that made her wince.

"No," she said, folding away the _Evening Prophet_. "They're still looking for Snape but no sign…"

"Of course there isn't," said Harry, who became angry every time the subject came up. She had been trying very hard not to bring it up, to keep him even-headed. She'd taken to manufacturing excuses to leave him and Ginny alone. "They won't find Snape till they find Voldemort, and seeing as they've never managed to do that in all this time…"

Hermione looked away. Harry looked at her when he talked about "they." She wasn't sure if he meant the Order or the Ministry or both, but she had obviously taken on a liaison position in his mind, the stand-in for "them."

"I'm going to bed," Ginny said, breaking the tension a bit with a yawn. "I haven't been sleeping that well since… well… I could do with some sleep."

She kissed Harry—Ron looked away—and waved at Ron and Hermione. Hermione smiled back. When she was gone, Hermione leaned forward and lowered her voice.

"Harry, I found something out this morning."

"What? R.A.B.?" said Harry, sitting up straight.

"No, nothing on that." He looked disappointed. "There are a couple of reasonably well-known wizards with those initials—Rosalind Antigone Bungs… Rupert 'Axebanger' Brookstanton—but they don't seem to fit at all. Judging by the note, the person who stole the Horcrux knew Voldemort, and I can't find a shred of evidence that Bungs or Axebanger ever had anything to do with him… No, actually, it's about… well, Snape."

"What about him?" Harry slumped back in his chair.

Hermione pressed on. She wanted to tell him about the potions book. She'd decided it the night before. She'd taken to sleeping down in the common room, the better to catch Harry if he decided to go running off, and she'd been staring at the portrait of the girl in the daisy crown.

"Well, it's just that Eileen Prince did once own the book. You see… she was Snape's mother."

"I thought she wasn't much of a looker," Ron said. Hermione ignored him.

"There was an old _Prophet_ announcement about Eileen Prince marrying a man called Tobias Snape, and then later an announcement saying that she'd given birth to a—"

"—murderer," spat Harry.

"Well… yes," Hermione said, wishing she'd never brought it up. She'd had a half-baked plan to try to tell Harry a little bit about Severus's childhood, about how his parents had been as awful as Harry's aunt and uncle. Worse in a lot of ways, actually. She had this idea in her head that, after the war, she'd want them to have common ground. She'd want them to get along, if at all possible. _This was a mistake. I shouldn't've said anything_. "Snape must have been proud of being 'half a Prince,' you see? Tobias Snape was a Muggle from what it said in the _Prophet_."

"Yeah, that fits," Harry said. "He'd play up the pure-blood side so he could get in with Lucius Malfoy and the rest of them…"

Hermione swallowed. He wasn't far off the mark at all, there.

"He's just like Voldemort. Pure-blood mother, Muggle father… ashamed of his parentage, trying to make himself feared using the Dark Arts, gave himself an impressive new name—_Lord _Voldemort—the Half-Blood _Prince_—how could Dumbledore have missed—?"

Hermione bit her lip as Harry cut himself off.

"I still don't get why he didn't turn you in for using that book," said Ron. "He must've known where you were getting it all from."

They both glanced at Hermione, but she ignored the looks.

"He knew," said Harry bitterly at last. "He knew when I used _Sectumsempra_. He didn't really need Legilimency… He might even have known before then, with Slughorn talking about how brilliant I was at Potions… Shouldn't have left his old book in the bottom of that cupboard, should he?"

"But why didn't he turn you in?"

"I don't think he wanted to associate himself with that book," Hermione said. _Or rather, he was too busy trying to keep the world spinning and hoped I'd be able to keep you in line._ "I don't think Dumbledore would have liked it very much if he'd known. And even if Snape pretended it hadn't been his, Slughorn would have recognized his writing at once. Anyway, the book was left in Snape's old classroom, and I'll bet Dumbledore knew his mother was called 'Prince.'"

"I should've shown the book to Dumbledore," said Harry, and it took all of Hermione's willpower not to roll her eyes. _Now you get it._ "All that time he was showing me how Voldemort was evil even when he was at school, and I had proof Snape was too—"

_That's my husband you're talking about._

"'Evil' is a strong word," she said quietly.

"You were the one who kept telling me the book was dangerous!"

"I'm trying to say, Harry, that you're putting too much blame on yourself. I thought the Prince seemed to have a nasty sense of humor, but I would never have guessed he was a potential killer…"

_I'd never have guessed I'd be able to kill, either._

"None of us could've guessed Snape would… you know," said Ron almost diplomatically.

They fell silent. Hermione wanted to reach out and wrap the both of them in a hug, to squeeze them tight and tell them that it would all be okay. She was a very good liar, after all. They might believe her.

They went their separate ways not long after that. Harry and Ron up to bed—or to talk, whatever teenaged boys did the night before a funeral—and Hermione packed. Lavender was sitting on her bed, staring at Parvati's empty bed blankly. It occurred to Hermione that she should say something, that Lavender's best friend had been yanked out of school and now she was probably feeling alone and scared. The years of teasing and harassment didn't weigh so heavily on her, no matter how obnoxious the girl had been to live with since New Years.

"Hey," Hermione said neutrally, crossing to her bed and beginning to sort through her things. She had her books and the important things in her satchel already, but there were still knick-knacks, the detritus of living in the same space for the school year, to put away.

"Hey," Lavender said quietly, subdued. Hermione glanced over and saw that Lavender was looking at her, surprised. Hermione thought maybe she shouldn't have said anything.

"Heard from Parvati at all?" _What the hell are we supposed to talk about? _

"Yeah. She and Padma are at home. She's mad they won't let her come back for the funeral."

They were quiet for awhile. Hermione sorted away everything but her dress robes for the funeral in the morning, which she put on a hanger on the wall. They were simple robes, especially for dress robes; she'd bought them ages ago for funerals. The under dress was dark gray cotton with a high collar, draping prettily down to the floor. The jacket—overdress? She was never sure what the term was when it came to the layers of wizarding clothing—was black linen. There were no lapels, no embroidery or adornment. It had a short collar, sleeves close to her arms that buttoned up the forearm like Severus's frock coat, and ended at her ankles. The jacket was open in front, showing the underdress, and held in place by a decorative silver clasp at her waist.

"Those are nice," Lavender said.

"Thank you," Hermione said, then took herself off to the bathroom to shower before bed. The girl was asleep when she reentered the room.

\\\

In the morning, they dressed without a word. Lavender gave her an odd look when she Shrunk her trunk and put it in the satchel, which she folded down to wallet size and stowed it away in a pocket, but she didn't say anything. Hermione wondered if they should hug or shake hands, but the day had started before she made up her mind.

Breakfast seemed very formal. Everybody was in their dress robes for the funeral, and the noise level never managed to rise above a mournful hum.

"It's nearly time," Minerva said at long last. "Please follow your Heads of Houses out into the grounds. Gryffindors, after me."

They filed out in near silence. Hermione had never seen the students so subdued, and that included the day of the memorial for Cedric Diggory.

Slughorn was leading the Slytherins, standing out like a sore thumb in his brilliantly green robes with silver embroidery. They were formal and resplendent, but they struck Hermione as out of place, as too ostentatious for a funeral. Of course, Dumbledore had been known to wear all sort of garish colors, often with silver moons and other clichés embroidered over them. Maybe the robes were an in-joke between the two of them.

The grounds were sunny and pleasant. Hermione was behind Harry and in front of Ron for the walk around the lake to the spot where the hundreds of chairs were set out in rows. There was an aisle down the center, and a marble table at the front. It was beautiful.

For the life of her, Hermione couldn't remember what she'd eaten for breakfast.

Hermione only recognized the well-known faces among the assembled mourners. There was an astounding assortment of people, really. Old, young, well dressed and not so well dressed. Tired. Varying states of distraught.

Most of the Order was present, though they weren't sitting together. Tonks's hair was bright pink. Bill had made it down from the hospital wing, and sat looking a little tired and very grim with Fleur by his side. The twins had matching dragonhide jackets in black. Madame Maxim was there, and, unfortunately, so was Rita Skeeter. She spotted Tom from the Leaky Cauldron, Aberforth from the Hog's Head, the hairy one from the Weird Sisters, Madam Malkin. Even the ghosts had left the castle, though it was hard to see them in the sunlight.

The students filed into seats on the lake side. Harry, Ron, Ginny and Hermione ended up on the outer row. Hermione could feel eyes on them. It made her skin crawl. She supposed that was what life was like for Harry Potter all the time. People watching, wondering, whispering.

The staff filed in last, taking seats in the front row, and then the merpeople made their appearance. Their music was strange, otherworldly, but beautiful. They were just below the surface of the lake, the water clear and a bit green in the sunlight. She didn't speak a lick of Mermish, so she had no idea what they were saying, but she got the idea of the song. Loss. Despair.

Then Hagrid walked slowly up the aisle between the chairs, crying silently, carrying the body of the headmaster wrapped in purple velvet with golden stars. It hurt to see it. Her eyes prickled dryly; she didn't seem to have any tears left even if she wanted them.

Hermione drew her Occlumency around her, feeling the cold shut out the pain, shut out the loss, shut out the feeling that she was spinning faster and faster out of control and away from the reasonable. She wished she really was an eighteen year old girl attending her headmaster's funeral and life was as simple as that.

Hagrid carried Dumbledore up to the front and lay him on the stone table, then stepped away. He walked back down the aisle, honking his nose in his hanky, headed for the back row and Grawp. When he was seated, the merpeople stopped their song, and a little tufty-haired man in plain black robes stood in front of the stone table. Hermione could only catch snatches of what the man said over the rustling of the crowd, with the light breeze working against her.

Hermione looked away from it, watching the merpeople rise above the surface of the lake, the centaurs gather at the edge of the forest. Next to her, Harry turned away as well. Hermione took his arm, linking their elbows as they sat next to each other. He startled, gave her a look, but then dismissed it.

At the front, the tufty-haired man reclaimed his seat. There was a long moment of silence. Then the flames rose up around Dumbledore's body. A few of the uninitiated screamed, and Harry twitched. She'd forgotten that he'd never been to a wizarding funeral; she probably should have warned him.

The flames rose higher and higher, obscuring Dumbledore's body. White smoke spiraled into the air, forming strange, beautiful shapes. Then the fire was gone and a tomb of white marble stood in its place.

A shower of arrows soared through the air, falling well short of the crowd (but a few people cried out anyway). Hermione looked over again, saw the centaurs disappearing back into the forest as the merpeople were sinking back into the depths of the lake.

Hermione lost it. She let go of Harry's arm in order to put her hands over her face, leaning forward so that her body was folded in half in her chair, head to knees.

Dumbledore was well and truly gone. Severus had been forced to do the deed, had been forced out of safety into the nest of the Death Eaters. It would only be a matter of weeks before the government was overrun, before nobody was safe. Their plans had incorporated Dumbledore's death—it had been inevitable after he'd been cursed—but they'd counted on more time. Now Harry would be at the Dursleys's, the students would be at their homes. Muggle-born first years would be left adrift, at best; at worst, they'd board the train for school and never be seen again.

And Severus would orchestrate the worst of it at the school. It would be a training ground for Death Eaters, for the new order. Exactly what he'd been trying to push his Slytherins away from for the past decade or so.

More than anything, she wished Severus had been able to come to the funeral. It was stupid. It had never been a possibility. It struck her as deeply unfair, and that thought almost made her laugh—when was anything actually fair? Nobody cared if Severus was more loyal to Dumbledore than anybody else in the world, certainly more loyal to the headmaster than she was. She had run, she had sidestepped him and avoided him for _years_ when she thought he'd asked too much of her. Severus had had one or two rows with him, and then knuckled under and did what was required of him.

Hermione would have gotten up and left the school, Apparated away. She was wearing her Time Turner under her robes; she could go to Edinburgh and when Severus arrived back at the flat she'd take him away. They'd go back as far as they could stand, and then they'd _live _goddammit. And when they caught up to themselves, they'd go back again.

If Ron hadn't grabbed her, held her, she would have made a run for it. Instead, she just let him hang onto her. She cried into his shoulder, but his was the wrong shoulder. He was too tall, too young. He stroked her hair when he should have rubbed her back. But he couldn't know that—hell, she was _glad _he didn't know that.

Gasping for breath, Hermione finally pulled herself upright. She saw that Ron had been crying, too; there were tears dripping off the tip of his nose. He cried almost prettily, and she was jealous for a moment. She was always a red, splotchy mess when she got going.

She looked around for Harry but he'd gone. She had a moment of panic. She fully expected him to try and make a run for it. Not the way she wanted to make a run for it; the opposite, in fact. He'd try to slip away while they were distracted, try to take the world on by himself out of some stupid, misguided sense of honor. He'd try to protect them with distance, and he'd get himself killed.

"Gods, the wanker," she said, spotting Ginny a few paces on. She had a thoughtful look on her face that Hermione knew too well—she was settling in to wait for Harry Potter to come to his senses again. She was going to wait for him while he went off to vanquish the evil like a good little hero.

"W-what?" Ron asked, somewhere between scandalized and amused.

"Harry's going to try to run off by himself. I _knew_ it," she growled. She wiped at her face, annoyed with the tears, and went up on her toes but she couldn't see over the crowd. "Can you see him?"

"He's fighting with the Minister again," Ron said, smiling now. He took her by the elbow and led her around the people until she could see them. Harry and Scrimgeor glared at each other. Harry said something with a final, set look on his face, and Scrimgeor turned and limped away.

"Hey, there's Percy the Ponce," Ron said, eyeing the Ministry delegation. "I'm gonna go hit him."

"Oh, no you don't," Hermione said, linking her arm in his and wrenching him around with her. He looked surprised that she was able to do it. She hoped he'd never find out about the Muggle Fights. "You're going to come with me and make Harry smile and remember that he needs us."

"Does he need us?" Ron asked, falling into step with her. She breathed a little easier when she saw Harry had spotted them and was walking slower, letting them catch up. The last thing she wanted was to sprint across the grounds in some mad dash to grab him before he could Apparate away.

"Yes, Ron, he does," she said. "Think about it. First year, I had to remember about the Devil's Snare, you had to play a great game of chess. If Harry hadn't had us with him, both of those would have killed him. Second year, I figured out the bit with the pipes and you went with him into the Chamber. Third year, you were mostly useless with your leg and I was mostly useless because I hate flying. Fourth year, I spent _way _too many hours drilling those spells into his head, and you kept him from going mad once you were done driving him mad. Fifth year—"

"—Yeah, I get it," he interrupted, and she smiled at him. She almost went on her toes and kissed his cheek, but he'd take that the wrong way. He was seventeen years old.

"What did Scrimgeor want?" she asked when they reached Harry.

"Same as he wanted at Christmas." He shrugged. "Wanted me to give him the inside information on Dumbledore and be the Ministry's new poster boy."

"Look, let me go back and hit Percy!" Ron said, trying to free his arm from hers.

"No," she said firmly, holding him solidly in place.

"It'll make me feel better!"

Harry laughed. Hermione smiled, but it faded fast when she looked past Harry and got the full view of the castle. It was beautiful. The sight of it reminded her that it might not open at all next year, according to Minerva. That was the big debate with the governors at the moment, especially as the number of students pulled out by their parents continued to climb.

"How can Hogwarts close?" She wasn't sure if she was asking them, or if she was just being sad.

"Maybe it won't," said Ron. She realized she was still holding his arm and let him go. "We're not in any more danger here than we are at home, are we? Everywhere's the same now. I'd even say Hogwarts is safer, there are more wizards inside to defend the place. What d'you reckon, Harry?"

"I'm not coming back even if it does reopen," said Harry.

Ron looked like he might fall over, but Hermione had half expected the answer. "I knew you were going to say that," she said. "But then what will you do?"

"I'm going back to the Dursleys' once more, because Dumbledore wanted me to. But it'll be a short visit, and then I'll be gone for good."

_And thank Merlin for that_, Hermione thought.

"But where will you go if you don't come back to school?" _What did Dumbledore tell you? What do you know? Is there a plan? He never gave me a plan. I really hope he gave you a plan._

"I thought I might go back to Godric's Hollow," Harry said. "For me, it started there, all of it. I've just got a feeling I need to go there. And I can visit my parents' graves, I'd like that."

"And then what?" Ron asked.

"Then I've got to track down the rest of the Horcruxes, haven't I?" said Harry. He wasn't looking at them anymore, he was looking back at the tomb. "That's what he wanted me to do, that's why he told me all about them. If Dumbledore was right—and I'm sure he was—there are still four of them out there." _Five_, Hermione's mind corrected, and she almost started crying again. "I've got to find them and destroy them, and then I've got to go after the seventh bit of Voldemort's soul, the bit that's still in his body, and I'm the one who's going to kill him. And if I meet Severus Snape along the way, so much the better for me, so much the worse for him."

Hermione scrubbed angrily at her eyes, dashing away the moisture that had begun to gather in her eyelashes. She was sick to death of crying.

They paused for a long moment, watching the last of the crowd dispersing. The wide berth they were giving Grawp was almost comical, though she didn't blame them in the least. Hagrid was clinging to his half-brother, howling with grief.

"We'll be there, Harry," Ron said.

"What?"

"At your aunt and uncle's house," said Ron. "And then we'll go with you wherever you're going."

"No—" Harry said quickly, panic flitting across his face.

"You said to us once before," Hermione said quietly, "that there was a time to turn back if we wanted to. We've had time, haven't we?"

"We're with you whatever happens," Ron said. "But mate, you're going to have to come round my mum and dad's house before we do anything else, even Godric's Hollow."

"Why?"

Hermione almost sagged with relief. He was asking _why_, not fighting them on it.

"Bill and Fleur's wedding, remember?"

"Yeah, we shouldn't miss that," Harry said after a sort of numb pause. Hermione almost smiled.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

"You brought food," Severus said, breathing through his nose. He'd been in limbo, sitting on the far end of the sofa and wondering how long it would be before he was called back to Malfoy Manor. It had been a week since Dumbledore's funeral, that miserable day where he'd closed the curtains and turned out the lights and drank all Hermione's booze. Since then, he'd just been waiting. In limbo. Waiting for the Dark Lord to call, waiting for Hermione to come home, waiting, waiting, waiting.

He might have been losing his mind a little bit.

"Fish and chips," Hermione said. She didn't bother with plates, simply setting the meals in their paper wrappings on the coffee table and sitting down on the couch next to him. Severus sat up properly and tucked in.

After a few bites, she set hers aside. When he raised an eyebrow in question, she just shrugged.

"I'm not in the mood for fish and chips, I guess." She sat back, getting comfortable. "You can eat mine, if you want."

She ate some of her chips, but mostly she just sat there and looked at him. She wasn't doing a thing to mask her appraisal of him. At first, he began to get annoyed, assuming she was looking him over for signs of depression or something. Then he realized she was simply ogling him. Good, old-fashioned ogling.

She was comparing her memories of him as her Potions master to her memories of him as her husband. Apparently, she'd noticed his jawline and "elegant" hands when she was fourteen. He also had his height, his shoulders that never fit into jackets properly unless he paid extra for tailoring, and "wiry strength." She even seemed to like his scars, if her mental review of them was anything to go by—the Cruciatus swirls like hers, the knife scars down the right side of his ribs, the new tapered pinkish lines on his forearms.

He looked her in the eye, wondering if she was transmitting her appraisal on purpose. It wouldn't surprise him. He wasn't the only one who was acting a bit unhinged since Dumbledore's funeral.

_I stuck true to type with you, you know_, she thought, and he scowled at her around his mouthful of fish. She was doing it on purpose after all. _I'd always gone for the tall, dark, broody ones. Hell, even the distinctive nose._

"Distinctive?" he asked, voice low. She smiled at him. Beamed at him, really. The smile made his heart race in his chest even if he _was _annoyed with her for bringing up his nose.

_I like the way I can feel your voice thrum through my whole body when we're sitting together._

He blinked at her. Had she read some book about keeping lines of communication open, about being honest, about making a marriage work? If she had, he wanted the book so that he could burn it. This was weird, this unprompted sharing. It was putting him off his lunch, and that was saying something considering he hadn't really been eating while she was away.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had fish and chips. It had been a favorite when he was small, usually an outing with his father on one of the few good days. And he hadn't realized how hungry he was until she had walked in and he'd smelled it.

Now that he'd finished inhaling his food like an animal and she'd stopped thinking uncomfortable things at him, he sat back to watch her. She wasn't quite blushing, but she was more flustered than he'd seen her in a long time.

If it wasn't for the scars, she would've been much the same as she had when she was a schoolgirl. She was a small woman, short and slender. Her hair was a mess, all chestnut-colored curls and frizz, soft to the touch; he liked it. If he squinted, he could imagine she was the same person, vibrating with the need to prove herself to everybody, but it was an illusion that didn't hold; she was just as tired as he was and she didn't take any shit.

Severus smiled, crumpling his paper into a ball and getting up to wash his hands. He liked her. If he hadn't fallen in love with her, they definitely would have been friends at the very least. Luckily, he'd fallen in love with her, and she'd fallen in love with him, and… And, really, that was where it ended. They had these stolen afternoons between his Summoning and her going to check on Potter. They pretended they had a future, fantasizing about what color their kitchen would be and whether they'd turn the cellar into a potions lab or… actually they both wanted the potions lab.

"Severus?"

He turned and realized he'd been standing in the kitchen holding his ball of greasy paper, staring at nothing.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, so am I," she said, eyebrows raised, skeptical. He almost smiled.

He wanted to kiss away her ills, hold her tight to him and never let go.

_Damn_.

He threw the paper away and turned to her. She wore Muggle clothes; she'd be leaving to casually walk by the Dursley house soon. Jeans and a t-shirt, hair in a practical ponytail.

He ignited when he met her eyes. He burned for her.

\\\

"News?" Yaxley asked.

"The best."

They walked down the lane, following the hedge on the right, cloaks flapping around their ankles.

"I thought I might be late," said Yaxley.

_Please stop talking to me._

"It was a little trickier than I expected. But I hope he will be satisfied. You sound confident that your reception will be good?"

Severus nodded but didn't say anything further. Yaxley was one of the few Death Eaters who still seemed to think of it as a political club instead of an indoctrinated cult. He chatted and he schmoozed and he seemed to think the Dark Lord wouldn't actually kill them if he felt like it.

They turned to the right, following the hedge up the wide driveway off the lane. The gates were huge and almost impressive, or they had been the first few dozen times Severus had visited the Manor. He held up his Dark Mark and passed through the gates like they were smoke, a variation of the same spell that had been used to keep the un-Marked off the Astronomy Tower those few short weeks ago.

_Goddamned peacocks_, Severus thought, then almost smiled when he wondered if he was thinking of the birds or the family that owned them. But then, the Malfoys hadn't been strutting around like peacocks in awhile. Lucius was fresh out of Azkaban and wasn't the better for it at all. Narcissa clutched to her husband when she wasn't clutching to her son. Draco was faring the best of the three, and he looked like he was just barely recovered from some serious illness.

"He always did himself well, Lucius. _Peacocks_…" Yaxley said, putting his wand away.

The door opened for them when they approached, then closed again when they were through. The hallway was large, dim, and sumptuously decorated. They walked through, past pale-faced portraits of dead Malfoys, and came to a stop at the heavy wooden door. They hesitated. It was a game of politics, who opened the door, who entered first.

Severus turned the bronze handle; he was currently the favorite. He'd been the one to kill the great Dumbledore, after all.

The drawing room was full of people, but it was silent. They sat at the long, ornate table as they always did, the Dark Lord a blurred silhouette with the fire behind him. A trick Severus had played at Order meetings for years, making it easy to observe without being observed; the others could never tell where his eyes were, and now the Death Eaters couldn't tell where the Dark Lord was looking, who he was looking at.

Severus paused a moment, letting his eyes adjust. There was a person suspended over the table, but he didn't look at them. It would be easier if he didn't look, if he didn't know who it was. Child, adult, man, woman, Muggle, wizard. It didn't matter. They were dead whether he looked or not. Draco didn't seem to know that yet; he kept glancing up.

_Stop torturing yourself, boy._

"Yaxley, Snape," the Dark Lord said, voice high and clear. "You are very nearly late."

Severus approached the table and the Dark Lord became easier to see through the gloom. Hairless, snakelike, slitted nostrils, red eyes with vertical pupils. His skin shone a bit in the firelight, almost seeming to emit a pearly glow. Everything about his screamed unnatural, wrong. Only Occlumency kept Severus from shuddering, from allowing his skin to crawl.

"Severus, here," the Dark Lord said, indicating the chair on his immediate right. The place of honor. He was still the favored one; that was a good sign. "Yaxley—beside Dolohov."

Severus took his seat and tried not to think about Dolohov. He'd developed new levels of hatred for the man since he'd married Hermione, since he'd traced the line between her breasts, from collar to hip, that marked where Dolohov's curse had almost split her in two.

Okay, not actually split her in two. It had been a serious injury, but not that serious. The point stood, though. He would kill Dolohov before it was all over.

"So?" Voldemort asked him, bringing Severus's focus back to the task at hand. He Occluded carefully, strengthening the compartmentalization that had become his life, secreting away his marriage and his hatred of the man down the table, of all of them at the table.

"My Lord, the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current place of safety on Saturday next, at nightfall."

There were reactions around the room. Fidgeting or stillness depending on the person, sharpened interest all around.

"Saturday… at nightfall."

Severus met the Dark Lord's eyes and felt the intrusion. It wasn't pleasant like it was when Hermione's mind brushed his, when her mind sunk into his and they shared their thoughts, emotions, memories. Severus showed the Dark Lord what he needed to see—he brought the feeling of his hatred for those around him and played it off as hatred for the Muggle-lovers in the Order, he showed the Dark Lord flickering images of Mundungus Fletcher sneaking around back alleys.

"Good. Very good. And this information comes—"

"—from the source we discussed," said Severus.

"My Lord."

Slowly, Severus turned his head to stare down the table at Yaxley. The tall man was sitting forward ever so slightly, eager to share information, to curry favor.

"My Lord, I have heard differently."

Everybody at the table was looking at him now. The Dark Lord did not acknowledge him.

"Dawlish, the Auror, let slip that Potter will not be moved until the thirtieth, the night before the boy turns seventeen."

Severus smiled and didn't bother to hide it. It wasn't a nice smile. Hermione had been the one to Confund Dawlish, to feed him the false information. She'd loitered outside the entrance to the Ministry and caught several key people unaware, planting the hints they hoped would get back to the Death Eaters.

"My source told me that there are plans to lay a false trail; this must be it. No doubt a Confundus Charm has been placed upon Dawlish. It would not be the first time; he is known to be susceptible," Severus said. Though susceptibility had nothing to do with it when Hermione was the one doing the Confunding.

"I assure you, my Lord. Dawlish seemed quite certain," said Yaxley. Really, it was too easy.

"If he has been Confunded, naturally he is certain," countered Severus. "I assure _you_, Yaxley, the Auror Office will play no further part in the protection of Harry Potter. The Order believes that we have infiltrated the Ministry."

"The Order's got one thing right, then, eh?" Keating, even further down the table from the Dark Lord than Yaxley, said. He gave a wheezy giggle that was echoed here and there.

The Dark Lord wasn't paying attention; he did not laugh. He was looking up at the body revolving slowly overhead, lost in thought.

"My Lord, Dawlish believes an entire party of Aurors will be used to transfer the boy—"

The Dark Lord held up a hand, silencing Yaxley. The other man shot a resentful look at Severus when the Dark Lord turned to him.

"Where are they going to hide the boy next?"

"At the home of one of the Order," said Severus. "The place, according to the source, has been given every protection that the Order and Ministry together could provide. I think that there is little chance of taking him once he is there, my Lord, unless, of course, the Ministry has fallen before next Saturday, which might give up the opportunity to discover and undo enough of the enchantments to break through the rest."

The Burrow had been the obvious choice. Contacts at the Ministry had leant their assistance with the wards, but that would prove to be a weakness. Once the Ministry fell, the enchantments would be less potent, and there would be a record of them which would make them easier to unravel.

"Well, Yaxley?" the Dark Lord called down the table, the firelight glinting in his red eyes. "_Will _the Ministry have fallen by next Saturday?"

Yaxley squared his shoulders, all eyes on him. "My Lord, I have good news on that score. I have—with difficulty, and after great effort—succeeded in placing an Imperius Curse upon Pius Thicknesse."

_"With difficulty, and after great effort,"_ Severus mocked in his mind.

"It is a start," said the Dark Lord as Dolohov clapped Yaxley on the back in congratulations. "But Thicknesse is only one man. Scrimgeor must be surrounded by our people before I act. One failed attempt on the Minister's life will set me back a long way."

"Yes—my Lord, that is true—but you know, as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Thicknesse has regular contact not only with the Minister himself, but also with the Heads of all the other Ministry departments. It will, I think, be easy now that we have such a high-ranking official under our control, to subjugate the others, and then they can all work together to bring Scrimgeor down."

"As long as our friend Thicknesse is not discovered before he has converted the rest. At any rate, it remains unlikely that the Ministry will be mine before next Saturday. If we cannot touch the boy at his destination, then it must be done while he travels."

"We are at an advantage there, my Lord," said Yaxley, determined to win approval. "We now have several people planted within the Department of Magical Trasnportation. If Potter Apparates or uses the Floo Network, we shall know immediately."

"He will not do either," said Severus. He'd warned Hermione about the moles. "The Order is eschewing any form of transport that is controlled or regulated by the Ministry; they mistrust everything to do with the place."

"All the better," said the Dark Lord. "He will have to move in the open. Easier to take, by far."

Again, Voldemort looked up to the revolving body as he went on, "I shall attend to the boy in person. There have been too many mistakes where Harry Potter is concerned. Some of them have been my own. That Potter lives is due more to my errors than to his triumphs."

Down the table, Death Eaters shifted nervously. They were all waiting for blame to fall on them, no matter what the Dark Lord was saying. Severus kept still.

"I have been careless, and so have been thwarted by luck and chance, those wreckers of all but the best-laid plans. But I know better now. I understand those things I did not understand before. I must be the one to kill Harry Potter, and I shall be."

Severus shivered, covering it by sitting up straighter in his chair. He was reminded that Ollivander was somewhere on the premises, providing information the Dark Lord hadn't seen fit to share with any of his followers. Or at least not with Severus. It was an unknown, and it made him uncomfortable.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a sudden wail. A terrible, drawn-out cry of misery and pain. Many at the table looked downward for the source of the noise, which seemed to come from below their feet.

"Wormtail," Voldemort said, just as quiet and thoughtful as before, still contemplating the revolving body above, "have I not spoken to you about keeping our prisoner quiet?"

"Yes, m-my Lord." Wormtail was halfway down the table, but Severus had missed him in his initial appraisal of the room because he was slouched so low in his seat. Now he scrambled from his chair and hurried out of the room.

"As I was saying," continued Voldemort, turning his eyes from the body above to look at his followers, "I understand better now. I shall need, for instance, to borrow a wand from one of you before I go to kill Potter."

Severus froze but tried not to appear as though he had frozen. Surely the Dark Lord would not require _his_ wand; he was the favorite of the moment. No, it would be from one of the others, possibly even Yaxley. Any of them, except probably Draco.

"No volunteers? Let's see… Lucius, I see no reason for you to have a wand anymore."

Lucius looked up. His skin was yellowish in the firelight, waxy. His eyes were sunken and shadowed. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

"My Lord?"

"Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand."

"I…"

Lucius glanced at Narcissa. She didn't look at him, but she had gone even paler. Severus saw her shoulder move and knew that she was touching him beneath the table, and whatever was communicated with that touch made Lucius reach into his robes and withdraw his wand. It was passed down the table to Voldemort, who held it up in front of his red eyes and examined it.

"What is it?"

_A wand, idiot_, Severus thought, training his eyes on the table to keep from sharing the thought. He needed to get himself under control.

"Elm, my Lord," Lucius whispered.

"And the core?"

"Dragon—dragon heartstring."

"Good." Voldemort drew his own wand to compare the lengths, and Lucius twitched as if to take the second wand as an exchange. Voldemort's eyes widened maliciously. "Give you my wand, Lucius? _My_ wand?"

There were sniggers down the table.

"I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you? But I have noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late… What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?"

"Nothing—nothing, my Lord!"

"Such _lies_, Lucius…"

There was hissing then. It almost sounded like the Dark Lord's own voice, but the mouth wasn't moving. The snake was somewhere nearby, then. Severus saw a few repressed shudders down the table as they listened to something heavy sliding across the floor beneath the table.

He was filled with dread whenever he saw the snake. He'd never had a particular fondness for snakes, but neither had he been particularly averse. It was supposed to be the symbol of his House, after all. But this snake was not a normal snake. This snake radiated malevolence like no animal he'd ever come across, and that included the mean little dog the woman next door had had when he was a boy; the one that bit his ankles and put holes in his trousers that his father shouted at him over later.

Nagini emerged, climbing Voldemort's chair. Severus tried not to watch as the snake kept coming, endless coils of serpentine body resting across Voldemort's shoulders. The snake's neck was thicker than Severus's thigh; its eyes, with their vertical slits for pupils, unblinking. The Dark Lord stroked the creature fondly.

"Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my return, my rise to power, not the very thing they professed to desire for so many years?"

"Of course, my Lord," said Lucius. He drew attention to his distress by wiping sweat from his lip with a shaking hand. "We did desire it—we do."

Narcissa nodded stiffly, eyes still fixed on the table. On Lucius's other side, Draco glanced down from the body above to Voldemort, then away again. They were over careful not to make eye contact, not to allow an opportunity for Legilimency.

"My Lord," Bellatrix said, seated beside her sister, "it is an honor to have you here, in our family's house. There can be no higher pleasure."

"No higher pleasure," Voldemort repeated, tipping his head to one side as he considered Bellatrix. "That means a great deal, Bellatrix, from you."

The witch blushed. _Blushed_. Her eyes welled with tears of delight. It was disgusting.

"My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!"

"No higher pleasure… even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place in your family this week?"

"I don't know what you mean, my Lord."

Severus smirked. _He_ knew what the Dark Lord meant. Tonks and Lupin had married; it had been a quiet ceremony, hardly more than signing the marriage license with a few friends to witness and a large dinner at the Burrow after. Hermione had joined them at the Burrow for the celebration.

"I'm talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours, Lucius and Narcissa. She had just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud."

Jeering laughter erupted. There was much exchanging of gleeful looks, fists thumping the table. Bellatrix's face went from flushed with pleasure to blotched red with anger.

"She is no niece of ours, my Lord," Bellatrix said, too loudly. "We—Narcissa and I—have never set eyes on our sister since she married the Mudblood. This brat has nothing to do with either of us, nor any beast she marries.

"What say you, Draco?" asked the Dark Lord. "Will you babysit the cubs?"

The hilarity mounted. Draco looked to his father, who was staring into his own lap, then to his mother, who shook her head almost imperceptibly. Severus found herself wishing that the Malfoys had been thus ousted years ago. Lucius had been his closest friend once. If the timing of things had been right, the fall from favor and this realization that the Malfoys had seemed to have about their loyalty to family over loyalty to the Dark Lord, they might have been friends again. Not proper allies, he couldn't risk that sort of trust, but… Things might have been different, easier.

"Enough," Voldemort said at last, stroking the snake, which was agitated from the noise in the room. "Enough."

The laughter died at once.

"Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time," Voldemort said. Bellatrix gazed at him, breathless and imploring. "You must prune yours, must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest."

_I will have to send word_, Severus thought. _The Tonkses and the Lupins._

"Yes, my Lord," Bellatrix said. Her eyes were swimming with grateful tears again, so easily appeased. Like the favorite dog, scrambling back for a pat on the head after it was just kicked. "At the first chance!"

"You shall have it," Voldemort promised. "And in your family, so in the world… we shall cut away the canker that infects us until only those of the true blood remain…"

Voldemort raised Lucius's wand, pointed it at the figure above the table, and flicked it. The figure groaned and began to struggle. It was a woman, judging from the groan. Severus kept his eyes on the Death Eaters, not looking up.

"Do you recognize our guest, Severus?" Voldemort asked, removing the choice. Now he had to look up.

Charity Burbage rotated above, angled with her head slightly lower than her feet. Just enough that there would be blood constantly rushing to her brain, making her all the more uncomfortable.

As though they had been given permission to show interest, the rest of the Death Eaters looked up. She revolved, slowly, now her face was in the firelight.

"Severus! Help me!" Her voice was cracked and terrified. Severus did not look away, did not blink.

Charity Burbage taught Muggle Studies at Hogwarts. She'd been there since his third year as a teacher. She'd been nice enough, though never a particular friend.

"Ah, yes," Severus said in response to the Dark Lord's inquiry. Burbage kept rotating, her face now away from him. He hoped her end would be quick. He hoped she hadn't been in the Manor long, hadn't been raped or otherwise tortured. She was dead already; her body just hadn't realized it yet.

"And you, Draco?" Voldemort stroked the snake's head with his wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily, staring at the table. Severus almost pitied him.

"But you would not have taken her classes," Voldemort said. "For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

There were noises of comprehension, nods as the Death Eaters placed the face. Gretchen Goyle cackled, pointed teeth gleaming.

"Yes… Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about Muggles… how they are not so different from us…"

Somebody spat but Severus didn't see who. Burbage revolved, now facing him again.

"Severus… please… please…"

What did she think he could do? Did she not see who else was in the room? Did she not see whose right hand he sat at? Did she not remember what he'd done to Dumbledore?

"Silence," Voldemort said, flicking Lucius's wand again. Burbage went silent, as if gagged. "Not content with corrupting and polluting the minds of Wizarding children, last week Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defense of Mudbloods in the _Daily Prophet_. Wizards, she says, must accept these thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling of the purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable circumstance… She would have us all mate with Muggles… or, no doubt, werewolves…"

Nobody laughed. Severus found himself recalling, madly, an article he'd read in a French journal examining birth rates around the world, and the interesting conclusion of the article that magic itself played a part in the reduced number of pureblood children. The data supported the conclusion, pureblood-pureblood couples produced, on average, one child, while any other pairing was more than twice as likely to have two or more children.

_Though, of course, they didn't include the Weasleys in the study…_

Burbage rotated again, faced him for the third time. Tears were pouring down her face, dripping into her hair. Severus looked back at her, met her eyes. It was as close to comfort as he could give her, and it was nothing at all.

The only comfort he had for himself was that she was facing away from him when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse.

Her body crashed to the table, making it tremble and creak. Several Death Eaters leapt back in their chairs. Draco fell out of his chair onto the floor.

"Dinner, Nagini," said Voldemort softly, and the great snake swayed and slithered from his shoulders onto the polished wood.

Severus held himself still, forced even breaths in and out of his nose, and wished he were anywhere else.

\\\

The first thing he did when he got home was shower. He didn't even kiss Hermione hello; he just called out a greeting and closed himself in the bathroom. Under the steaming flow of the water, he scrubbed himself raw. Every part of him was pink and tingling when he finished.

He didn't want to put his clothes on again. At least the snake hadn't touched them, so he wasn't inclined to burn them. He still didn't want them on, constricting him, reminding him.

She was cooking when he emerged, and she smiled at his bathrobe. It wasn't the first time he'd returned only to scrub away the day; she didn't ask him questions. He'd probably tell her about later.

"How do you feel about chicken alfredo?"

"Sounds delicious."

"Good, because it's almost done."

He smiled, feeling some of the tension leak out of him. He went into the bedroom to find clothes. Blue jeans, preferably. He wanted to rebel against the Death Eater ideals. When he reemerged—blue jeans and a Beatles t-shirt, and he hadn't bothered with socks—she was scooping pasta and sauce onto plates.

"We don't have any wine," she said. "I haven't restocked since we drank it all."

"Probably for the best."

They sat down and tucked in. It was thoroughly domestic. They'd been at this for a few weeks, living these dichotomous lives. They went their separate ways during the days, he playing the Death Eater while she plotted and worried with the Order, then returned to the haven of the flat at night. They ate together, relaxed together. They pretended that the world didn't exist for the short snatches of time that they could afford.

"Hestia and Dedalus volunteered to tackle the Dursleys," Hermione said. The stress was getting to her, he could see. She would start meals as if she was famished, eat half her plate, then poke at it. She slept like the dead. It didn't help that she was PMSing, too (by her own admission)—a pleasure he hadn't experienced up close before. She grouched about her jeans not fitting right, her breasts were sore enough that she wouldn't let him touch them, and her moods were more… meteoric… than normal. He was keeping a mental checklist of things to watch out for, just for future reference in case they survived long enough that it could be useful.

"Dedalus Diggle is going to be in the same house as those Muggles?" He tried to imagine it. Diggle was one of many who loved Harry Potter without really knowing him, blind celebrity worship. And, as Severus had learned from the aborted attempt to teach Potter Occlumency, the Dursleys held the opposite opinion of their nephew.

"I almost wish I could be there, just for the first few days," she said. She had given up on her food and was picking at it again. He frowned. "They'll spend so much time trying to tell the Dursleys how great he is."

"I'd be more interested to see the Muggles' reaction to the safe house," Severus said. "Petunia hated anything remotely 'not normal' on principle when she was a child. I can't imagine that's changed."

"It's probably gotten worse."

\\\

The next evening he didn't get to eat with Hermione; instead, he participated in an awful, stilted mess of a meal at Malfoy Manor. The food was good, but that was the best that could be said of the evening.

He was seated conveniently close to Marcella, as he was still in favor. They sat together in a loveseat sipping cognac and watching the show on the other side of the room: Lucius was being made to use a Muggle paddle to spank his son as punishment for failing his task. The subject of childhoods and childhood punishment had come up at dinner, and Severus had made the mistake of mentioning a few of Flich's ideas on the subject.

While Severus's friendship with Lucius was largely farce these days, he genuinely cared for his godson. It was hard to watch.

Marcella rubbed at him, trailing her fingers up and down his thigh. Since the Dark Lord had his eyes on them from his place near the fire, Severus smirked and snaked his arm around her and played with her breast, pinching the nipple too hard to be exactly pleasurable. She wilted against him anyway, moaning delightedly. After a bit more of that, he was able to dramatically drag her off to the privacy of the anteroom, where he could dump her on the sofa with the usual "contraceptive" down her throat.

He leaned against the door and closed his eyes. It was getting more difficult to keep doing this. The _whump_ of the paddle and Draco's strangled whimpers came through the door, mixing with Marcella's idiotic moaning. Severus wished he could Silence all of it away, cast _Muffliato_ on himself and just sit for awhile, be away from it. He was sick of it.

Instead, he opened his coat and untucked his shirt, ran a hand through his hair. He smirked at Marcella when she opened her eyes, and whipped away through the door before she could say anything. Sometimes she disgusted him more than the proper Death Eaters.

In the main room, Lucius was sitting stiffly on the sofa, the veins in his neck telling that he had his fists clenched in the folds of his robes. Draco sat beside him, face deep red with humiliation; however, he sat close enough to his father that Severus knew the punishment had only cemented family bonds further. The Dark Lord was priming the Malfoys for defection and he didn't even realize it.

The party broke up less than an hour after that. Most of them had appearances to keep up with day jobs. Severus returned home to the flat in Edinburgh. He had a foul taste in his mouth, and all he wanted to do was hang on to his wife and never let her go.

She was sitting on the countertop in the kitchen, holding the delicate golden Time Turner.

"Do you ever think of running away?" Hermione asked. Her supper dishes were in the sink next to her; she'd eaten pasta left over from the day before.

"All the time," he admitted. There was no point lying to her. Even when they weren't leaking thoughts, they were both too good at Legilimency to be fooled by false words.

"At the funeral," she said slowly, still not looking up from the Time Turner, "I almost left. When everything was finished and people were milling about, I almost just came back here and got the Time Turner and left."

He sat on the bench by the door and removed his boots.

"I was going to come here and just sit and wait for you to come home, then Turn us both away. Keep Turning back so that when we eventually caught up to it we'd be so old we'd be useless, nobody would believe who we said we were, and then we could retire to the middle of nowhere and get a cat."

He knew from her tone that she was just telling him to say it out loud, to admit that she didn't want to do this any more than he did. She didn't really plan on running. Neither of them had it in them to turn their backs on their friends and family like that. They might wish they had it in them, things would be easier (at least for them) if they did. But they didn't.

He left his boots and coat by the door and went to stand by her, putting his hands on her knees and opening them so that he could stand between her legs. He wrapped her hands around the Time Turner and then wrapped his hands around hers. They didn't say anything for awhile.

He didn't want to be sad anymore. Enough. He'd take what time they had and worry about the rest later.

She seemed to be thinking along the same lines. When he kissed her, she responded with zeal. Their hands stayed between them, still clenched around the Time Turner, and it felt like they were stealing time, like the kiss could go on forever and they wouldn't lose a second.

The spell was broken by the pressing need to breathe; he was light-headed when they broke apart. She smiled at him, setting the Time Turner aside, reaching for the flies of his trousers, undoing them with practiced ease. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled her shirt over her head. She slid off the counter, her body gliding wonderfully down his, and they she kept going down until she was kneeling on the floor at his feet, hands pulling his trousers down.

Her mouth was hot and wet, and her fingers were cool contrast. His hips bucked, and he grabbed the counter for support. She continued to explore, though it was familiar territory by now, with her tongue and lips. Planting little kisses here, trailing her tongue along there. She brushed her teeth across the head and then grinned up at him when his hips twitched again.

"Patience," she said, her breath hot on his shaft. He growled, unable to find any words, especially not when she took him in her mouth the next moment. No more teasing, she swallowed him whole, lips and tongue gliding all around him, throat convulsing around his tip.

He bucked, his body trying to thrust into her mouth. She let him, beginning to move with him. Her head came away, releasing him, only to move down on him again. He moaned, gasping for breath.

Again.

He had one hand tangled in her hair, guiding her head along his shaft. The other was still clenched on the lip of the counter.

Again.

She sucked hard, and that was the end of him. He burst, coming hot full in her throat. She moaned, continuing to suck, drinking it all down. He watched her, watched her eyes slide closed as she brought him over the edge. It was one of the most erotic things he'd ever seen.

His head fell forward, and he drifted for a moment. He was limp, sated, but only for an instant. She had released him from her throat, but she was still sucking, licking, cleaning his come off of him. He opened his eyes when she sat back on her heels, and watched her wipe a hand across the bottom of her face. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

He could feel his sack tightening; he wanted to have her again. As soon as possible. Sooner, actually.

Severus tossed his shirt away, stepped out of his trousers, toed off his socks. The cupboard by the kitchen table held their potions. Most of them were healing things, considering the kitchen's second purpose as a surgery, but he also kept the potions he brewed for the Death Eaters in there. The bottle he was looking for was small and purple, the potion inside an old nameless thing simply for potency.

He knocked it back, and his cock jerked to attention the moment it hit his tongue. He was almost painfully aroused in the time it took him to turn around to face her again. She had her clothes off now, down to her knickers and bra. In two steps, he was on her, looping his fingers in the waistband of her knickers and letting them drop. She stepped out of them, ending up closer to him, and he spun her in his arms so that he could see what he was doing as he unclasped the bra. He kept her facing away from him, sliding the straps of the bra down her arms. It fell away, landing on the kitchen floor with a soft thump.

Both properly naked, he pulled her to him. He put one arm around her waist, and slid the other across her breasts, pressing them against his forearm. She moaned; her breasts had been so sensitive lately. She leaned back into him, grabbing the arm he had around her waist, fingers clenching around his arm right below the elbow. Her other arm reached up for his head, her hand finding his hair. He pressed forward as she pressed back. She moved a leg, pressing her foot into the back of his thigh, opening to him.

The angle wasn't right; he wasn't properly inside her. It didn't matter. She was still all around him; he was encased. His tip nudged her clitoris each time they moved. She was panting in his arms.

He tipped his head down, sucking and biting her shoulder gently as they moved.

She moaned and the one leg she stood on gave out. They stumbled forward, the foot she had against the back of his thigh almost pulling his knee into a bend. They almost fell to the floor, but they found the counter first. Her hands jerked away from his, breaking their crash.

His chuckle turned into a groan as their position changed. She ground her hips back, squeezing her ass closed over his shaft.

"Fuck," he whispered harshly. She released him, and he shifted back, drawing out of her. He wanted to be inside her properly.

She turned in his arms, hard nipples trailing along the arm he still hand clenched to her as she moved. She gasped, breath ragged. He released his arm to grab her and lift her, moving to the side, setting her on the table and standing between her knees as he had earlier.

The table was the perfect height. It was as if they had planned it. He stood there, appreciating the view, appreciating the way her little wet hole now effortlessly lined up with his cock.

She was a small woman, and too skinny, but she had such curves—his mother would have called her hips "child-bearing hips" for their wideness, and would've said something about happy babies for the fullness of her breasts. He mostly liked her hips because they led to some fine-shaped legs and cradled him so nicely when he was inside her. And her breasts were heavy in his palms, warm and soft, begging for him to press his face against them, to kiss them, to suckle the nipples.

He did all that, burying his face between her breasts and inhaling. This was the best place for the scent of her skin. The vanilla of her lotion, the warm smell of sweat, that undefinable scent beneath it all that was just her.

He tickled the underside of one with a fingertip and was rewarded with her happy quiver in his lap. He pressed his lips to the skin around the nipple, kissing, sucking gently. She arched into him, her hands coming up to his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, to guide his lips where she wanted them. He didn't let himself be rushed; in his own time, he lay the flat of his tongue against her raised nipple, drawing it slowly into his mouth, his hand going from her breast to her back, holding her to his mouth. His other hand grasped the other breast, the thumb pressing on the nipple, rolling it, kneading the breast.

She arched against him, pressing her breast into his mouth. He lifted his head to kiss the underside of her chin, then switched breasts. His hands went around her, pulling her closer until she was arched into him again, the bare flesh of her torso pressed into his chest.

"Severus," she moaned when he stopped, shifting back and breathing hard. Her lips found his again, her hands exploring his shoulders and back, tangling in his hair, digging into the soft skin of his neck.

Severus hesitated for only a moment, considering his options. He thought of returning the favor, of going down on her; it was something he actually enjoyed doing, as she seemed to enjoy sucking him off. He'd gone a long time before any woman had told him he wasn't supposed to enjoy it, and by then he hadn't cared what the other men they might have taken to bed thought of it or what they did. And this was Hermione, this was his wife.

It came down to the simple fact that he would rather come inside her than come all over the floor as he licked her cunt.

He ran his hands along her thighs, pulling her knees out wider. She looked up at him, leaning back and propping herself up with her hands, watching. He moved slowly, savoring it all. She was shining, all glistening pink and red. She was radiant.

He slid home, hands finding her hips and bracing there as he leaned forward into her.

"Yes," he whispered. She released a high keen, a wanting noise that he heard more with his cock than with his ears.

When he was in to the hilt, pressing against her in the deepest place, surrounded by the stretch of her walls, he continued to lean forward over her until they were pressed together entirely. She wrapped her arms around him, fingers digging into his shoulder blades, trying to pull him closer.

"Severus."

He began to move, just little rolling thrusts at first. He couldn't be slow and gentle this time, though; not with this woman, not with the potency potion. Not when she said his name every time he pushed in again. Then it was a syllable each time as he moved faster, faster.

"Sev-rus." She was gasping, hands scrabbling at his back, knees rising up so that they were alongside his ribs, her feet tight against his ass. "Sev-rus!"

She was almost lying on the table now, he had one of his hands stretched forward to the wall and the other still on her hip. He couldn't form words. His thoughts had derailed entirely when he'd felt her tightness around him. They'd been doing this so often he had expected to get used to it, to begin to lose the intensity of the way she stretched to accommodate him. He hadn't.

He knew he was grunting and groaning, making all the traditional guttural male noises of the act, but he was beyond caring. He slammed into her, and she convulsed around him, her head dropping back against the table as she cried out, wordless for once. He followed her over the brink, exploding in the depth of her with a low groan.

She drew him down for a kiss, lips light and lingering. She shifted beneath him, wrapping both legs around his waist now and maintaining their connection even though he was limp inside her.

"Hermione," he groaned, his hands pressing her hips into his hips, holding himself in as they shifted. She sat up from the table and he dropped into one of the hard wooden chairs. She shifted forward, keeping him inside, putting her heels against the back of the legs of the chair and pressing her pelvis down against his. She never broke the kiss, deepening it once they were settled.

The kiss, the exploring hands, and suddenly he was growing hard again. He wondered if there was a record for this particular potion, but not for long.

She took the lead this time, planting her hands on his shoulders and grinding down on him. He let his hands roam, sometimes bracing against her ribs or back, sometimes tracing along the breasts bouncing against his chest. She came first again, settling down heavily onto him and throwing her head back, screaming her release. He held her hips, watching, trying to hold on.

She finally fell forward, pressing her forehead against his neck, gasping. "Come on, Severus," she said, almost playfully, then nipped at the side of his neck at the same moment she squeezed him with some unnamable inner muscle.

They rested like that for a long moment, just breathing. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close and enjoying the feel of skin on skin. Sated.

"Ugh," she said when she got up, reaching her arms up to the ceiling in a long stretch that was very nice to watch. "I'm a mess."

She bent over, which was also nice to watch, and fished her wand out of her jeans on the floor, the flicked it at herself. The shine of his come leaking out of her vanished, and the fine sheen of sweat covering her body as well. She flicked her wand at him, too, and he felt much better for it.

He smirked, rising, and stood very close. She looked up at him, dropping her wand to the counter, and ran her hands up his chest. He lowered his face to her upturned lips, kissing her chastely. If they'd been clothed, it was a kiss that could have passed between any couple in the middle of the street. Something intimate, promising more, but just a kiss.

Hermione tilted her chin up, lips parting ever so slightly to him in welcome, and his tongue slipped into her mouth. Tongues dueled, sliding enticingly across each other, until she got frustrated with the angle of the kiss. Her hands tightened on his shoulders and she broke the kiss to jump onto him, her knees clamping around his waist, her hips cradling his erection between them. He caught her, taking advantage of the opportunity to cup his hands around her ass.

Now with their mouths level, she leaned in for the kiss again. It was sweet, almost, all light and teasing flicks of the tongue. Then her hands locked around his neck and shoulders, though, and the teasing disappeared. She made him very aware of her breasts pressed to his chest, her tongue in his mouth, her sex inches away from his own.

He stumbled away, intending to go to the bedroom, but they didn't make it. He missed the door and had her against the wall instead. She locked her ankles at the base of his spine, her heels digging into the top of his ass, bouncing with each move he made. They thudded and shuddered, and she found her release only moments after he had his own.

After, she lowered her legs and he slipped out. They stood there for a long moment, just trying to breathe. He had her enveloped in his embrace, arms that had been braced next to her shoulders were wrapped around her waist, his head next to hers as he enjoyed the coolness of the wall against his forehead. Their hips were still pressed together, one of his knees between her legs so that his hip bone rested against her pubis. She had her arms around his chest, a hug now instead of whatever the term was for when she trying to pull him entirely into herself during sex.

"I don't think I can move anymore," she whispered to his collarbone after an unknowable space of time. Their hearts had stopped racing, at last. He could breathe normally. He knew the potency potion had worn off because he hadn't immediately rallied for another round. He felt like, if he let her go, he might collapse at her feet from pure physical exhaustion. The crash afterwards was always the price of that sort of potion.

Wordless, he kissed her temple and scooped her into his arms. She wrapped her near arm around his neck, which pressed her breasts against him wonderfully. _Focus, Snape. Don't drop her._

He carried her into their bedroom and set her on the bed. She began to scoot back, raising her knees to push herself along, but he stopped her with a hand on her thigh. The posture had opened her to him, quim shining wet in the dim light coming through the curtained window.

Severus went to his knees on the rug beside the bed, pulling her close. He drew first one leg and then the other over his shoulders until he was perfectly placed. He inhaled, breathing her in, running his nose along her slit.

"Severus, you don't have to—" she started, but he cut her off with his tongue against her clit.

He buried his face between her legs, teasing with tongue and gentle teeth. Sucking gently at her clitoris, and pressing one then two fingers inside, feeling the renewed slickness, curving his fingers just so so that they reached that particular spot inside of her. His thumb joined his lips at her clit, and he sucked one last time. She came, walls clenching around his fingers, thighs clamping his head between them. He couldn't breathe for a moment, but that was alright; the next moment, she slumped back in boneless release, and he crawled up onto the bed next to her.

Her chest was heaving, breasts rising and falling, nipples dark and pebbled against the pale skin. He teased the side of a breast with his lips, waiting for her to come back to him. His hand, fingers still wet from her, rested low on her belly.

"Holy shit," she said, and he smiled, nipping at that near nipple before he sat up properly for a kiss.

She melted against him, pulling him down to her, hands everywhere. She grasped him, drawing a gasp from him. Her hand was steady; she knew exactly how he liked to be touched, and did it better than he ever had. He thrust into her hand, and she lightened the pressure, thumb flirting with his foreskin.

"Hermione," he moaned. He ached, both with need and tiredness. The tiredness evaporated when she shifted, her whole body sliding along his for a long moment, and then dropping back to the bed. Then again. She wormed her way to the top of the bed, lying back against the pillows and fixing him with what could only be described as a "come hither" stare.

Smirking, he did. He crawled along the length of her, beginning with the nearest foot, dragging lips and tongue and teeth up the delicate ankle, teasing the inside of her thigh with his fingertips, kissing along the crest of hip bone, teasing past her bellybutton and up the center line of her torso, precisely avoiding her breasts. He lay on top of her, lacing his fingers with hers and holding her hands above her head in the pillows. He trailed wet, sloppy kissed from one side of her collarbone to the other, then up her neck. He paused at the sensitive spot beneath her ear, sucking, biting, kissing, marking.

"You are mine," he said before finally claiming her lips. He hadn't actually meant to say it out loud.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

Mornings were quickly becoming Hermione's favorite time of day. She woke surrounded in warmth. Severus was spooned around her, her back pressed to his chest, his head resting above hers on the pillow. His arms were around her, the bottom arm positioned just right so that it went under her neck with her head resting in the curve of his shoulder. Their legs weren't tangled together, but spooned just as much as the rest of their bodies; his knees against the back of her thighs.

His morning wood was a warm presence between them, as usual, despite the rigors of the night before. She could feel the ache of it deep inside her, the stiffness in a few joints from the odd positions. It made her smile.

She stretched, loosening his hold on her, and rolled in his arms. Of course he was already awake. She could never tell if he woke when she moved, or if he just held her and let her sleep even though he woke up.

"Morning," he said, and she smiled broader.

"Hello."

He reached behind, momentarily shifting the sheet across them and letting in cool air. She shivered and felt her nipples contract. It wasn't precisely uncomfortable.

Severus handed her a small vial she didn't recognize. "For the soreness," he explained when she raised her eyebrows at him. He clinked her vial with one of his own before they both drank. She felt better immediately. All those little aches she wouldn't have had if she were really eighteen, even if she'd spent several hours the night before putting the kitchen surfaces to that particular type of good use.

She hummed, turning around so that he was spooned against her back again. He wrapped his arm around her, holding her close. She shifted, pressing back and down, making her intent quite clear. He wouldn't be getting rid of that charming hardness on his own in the shower today; he had to share.

"Wench," he murmured.

She ground her hips back against him, and he groaned low in his throat. The sound seemed to travel mostly through his skin and into hers.

He kissed her neck, the hand that wasn't holding her to him running down the length of her spine and then cupping her ass. She pressed into him again, beginning to set a rhythm to the grinding. He picked up on it, beginning to twitch, his arms and legs moving indecisively behind her. Then, his lips came down on her shoulder, kissing and then spreading wide so that he could press his teeth into her skin. It was her turn to groan, arching back involuntarily.

The movement was quick, he rolled them up, and she settled on her hands and knees in the pillows. He positioned himself behind her, one hand snaking between them and holding her flesh open, the other guiding her hips back onto him.

Usually their mornings were lazy, tender. Not this one. He slammed into her, jerking her back against his length, then pulling his hips away only to do it again. It was magnificent. His hand was between her folds, fingers pressing at her clit, driving her insane. Her elbows gave and out she fell forward onto her forearms, changing the angle yet again, and he hit that perfect spot. She moaned. He shouted.

They were a mess of limbs on the bed again. The pillows had fallen off at some point, and most of the blankets. He still held her from behind, but he was limp between them now. They lay like that until they could both breathe and their hearts had slowed to normal.

He shifted behind her, beginning to get up off the bed and pulling her along with him. Most of the time she liked that he could carry her around, especially in the instances like the night before, but sometimes, like when she wanted nothing better than to lay in bed forever, it was obnoxious.

"Let's shower," he said, and suddenly it wasn't so obnoxious.

He led her to the bathroom by the hand, smirking over his shoulder. Bastard.

\\\

It wasn't two hours later that Hermione dropped a plate back into the sudsy water in the kitchen sink when Severus's Patronus burst through the wall and stood on the kitchen table. A silvery fox, larger than any fox she'd ever seen, with a clever narrow face and a tear in one ear that made him look a bit scrappy; it was Severus, alright.

"Get your parents," the fox said in Severus's voice, then vanished. Hermione left the dishes, turning and running out the door for the end of the hall where she could Apparate.

The neighborhood was quiet. They'd woken at barely five, as was their habit, and it was just now going on eight. The people in the houses were waking up and going to work. A low, wet fog clung to the grass and gathered under the boulevard trees.

Hermione ran for their house, going up the path, looking for a disturbance. There was nothing; it was quiet. No hooded figures leapt out of the bushes at her.

"Mum? Dad?" she shouted, running through the front door. The foyer and living room were exactly the same as they always were. There was the sofa. The blanket her grandmother had crocheted. Her photo was on the mantelpiece, one that had been taken the summer after fifth year right after she got out of St. Mungo's.

Something thumped upstairs, and she heard their bedroom door open. The light on the top landing flicked on, and there was her father's silhouette at the top of the stairs.

"Hermione?"

She ran up the stairs, launching herself at him. He was barely taller than she was, with narrow shoulders and white-gray hair. She got her curls from him, but it was hard to tell because he kept his hair so short.

"They're coming," she said, her voice cracking. She pulled away from him, making an effort to marshal her thoughts, to come up with a plan. "They're coming," she repeated, steadier.

Her mother appeared in the doorway. Her face was pale, bloodless, and for a moment Hermione was terrified that she'd been hurt. But it was just panic.

Hermione spun, flicking her wand and nonverbally Summoning the suitcases out of the hall closet. They thumped down at her feet and she did some more wand waving. "Pack!" she cried, and the house began to pack itself into the two bags. Everything from knick-knacks to furniture obediently floated over to the bags and shrunk itself down before disappearing inside.

"You need to disappear. Now. Today." Hermione yanked at her hair, conjuring an elastic with a thought and binding the mass of it back out of the way.

"Where will we go?" her dad asked. He'd stepped over by her mother and had a comforting arm around her shoulders. They looked so small and vulnerable there in their flannel pajama sets.

"I have a plan," Hermione promised. She and Severus had talked it over ages ago, but she'd been hesitating. As far as he'd been able to tell, they hadn't been targets, not yet. _So much for that._ "First we have to get out."

She began checking windows, going from one room to the next. It didn't actually matter if they were locked or not, but it made her feel better that they were. She would've pulled the curtains closed, but her spell had packed them away already.

The suitcases clicked shut, the only noise in the house. It sounded very final.

"Check to make sure I didn't miss anything," she said, poking her head in what had once been her bedroom as she said it. It was completely empty. Bare. Out the window, she saw dark figures making their way toward the house. They brought more fog with them, thicker and darker, more ominous. False fog. Conjured to maintain the Statute of Secrecy, or was there some other trick? "Try to stay away from the windows."

"Hermione," her mother said, part chastising part nervous, "you're scaring us."

Hermione looked at them, trying to think of something to say that was both honest and soothing. Nothing came to mind. She was saved from responding by the Death Eaters. The house shuddered. Something fell off the roof and landed with a hard crack in the yard.

She turned the landing light off and led the way down the stairs. They stood by the big window in the living room, standing back far enough that they would be hidden by the darkness of the house.

There were four Death Eaters in full robes standing out on the street taking turns prodding the wards. She recognized Severus's silhouette, and the wide forms that were probably Crabbe and Goyle Sr. The last one she didn't recognize.

The house shuddered again, and this time she saw a flicker of yellow-green along the dome of the wards.

"Who are they?" her mum asked.

"Death Eaters," she said. "They'll tear the house down after we're gone."

She knew she sounded empty. They looked at her, and they were terrified. She'd lost the ability to be scared like that; she would probably scream and cry later, but right now she was hollow, Occluding reflexively.

She turned to her parents, assessing. They were both mussed from bed; they'd been asleep when she arrived. They had probably scheduled themselves a bit of a lie-in for whatever reason, moving appointments to after lunch. They did that every few weeks to keep themselves relaxed. They had a lie-in, went out to brunch together. Normal lives.

_See that tall one out there? I'm in love with him; we got married but it's a secret because people would kill us if they knew. Literally kill us. How's that for normal lives?_

Pushing away the thoughts, Hermione led the way into the kitchen. The bareness there was even more jarring than in the rest of the house, since the kitchen was always the heart of the house. The pleated curtains gone, and the loud tablecloth. All shrunk in the bags floating along behind her.

"Okay," Hermione said, bringing her wand up and turning to look at her parents. She tried to ignore the fear written so clearly across their faces. "I'm going to Disillusion you and the bags. Then we're going to step outside, but you stay by the house. I'm going to distract them. As soon as they are paying more attention to me than anything else, you run for the tree across the street.

"You get there and you stay there. If anything happens to me, stay there until the Aurors come. Speak loudly and clearly, and tell them who you are and what happened. They'll sort you out."

Before they could protest or ask questions, Hermione tapped them each on the head with her wand. They both shivered as the spell trickled down them, and then they were a pair of shimmers. She did the same with the bags, making sure each of them had one in their hand before casting the spell. It wouldn't do to lose all her parents' worldly possessions so stupidly.

"Why would you even bother to come here?" Hermione said as loudly as she could without shouting, sneering at the Death Eaters. They'd frozen when she stepped out the kitchen door, letting it bang against the outside wall (which meant it opened nice and wide for the two mostly invisible figures to creep out after her). "The parents were evacuated to the States ages ago."

"You lie," one of the roundish ones said gruffly.

"Saw them moving around last night," the other said.

The Death Eaters were standing and watching her. They'd stopped attacking the wards in favor of stalking around the perimeter of them toward her. She moved away from the back of the house, moving closer to them, keeping them away from where her parents would be.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "I'm awfully good at spells, you know."

"Not that good," Severus drawled in his best aloof professor voice. The others chuckled appreciatively.

"Fuck you," she called back, holding her arms away from her, a clear 'bring it on' stance.

"Mudblood bitch," the fourth Death Eater called from behind his mask. She still didn't know him.

She drew the knife from the wand sheath on her wrist and threw it at Crabbe/Goyle Sr. as she launched herself across the wards at the closer one. She kicked him in the chest as she crossed the line of the wards, and then started with the curses, as many of them as fast as she could. He was off balance and she Disarmed him, snatching his wand out of the air and aiming her next kick at his head, which knocked him down. The one she'd thrown the knife at lurched toward her, pulling the knife out of his neck. That was a mistake; blood started pumping out of the hole and he dropped to one knee.

Hermione called up Fiendfyre. First, she burned the bleeding one, then the unconscious one. She didn't let them burn for long, but she didn't need to.

She spun toward the fourth, knowing Severus might make a show of a few flashy near-misses but her attention needed to be on the other. She turned the Fiendfyre on him, but only singed him, letting the cursed fire eat his wand and char his wand hand black. When he reeled back from it, screaming, she Stupefied him. Comically, he stumbled back and fell on his ass before going limp on the ground.

She disbanded the Fiendfyre with a flourish of her wand, then put it back in the sheath as she turned to Severus. He was behind the fourth one, off to one side. She took a few steps toward him, intending to talk, but he stepped around her and looked down at the fourth one briefly before casting a curse she didn't know. A jag of red light flew from his wand and sliced clean through the Death Eater on the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked, throwing her hands up. "I was leaving you a witness!"

Severus turned to her, taking off his mask and stepping up close. His eyes were, in a word, intense. He raised a hand and put the tip of his finger at the top of her curse scar just below her collarbone, slowly drawing it down the length of the scar to end at her hip. It was completely hidden beneath her shirt and robes, but he probably knew the lines of her scars better than she did.

She wrapped her arms around his middle, surprised at the emotions that welled up. She hadn't known that, after all the time that had passed, it meant something that Dolohov was dead. It had been her first injury, her first scar from the war. The first time she'd realized just how vulnerable she was.

"Sh," he soothed, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight to him. His hands were large and warm on her back, one of them rubbing gentle circles. "Sh, Hermione. Sh."

She was crying and wished she could stop. She'd been crying too much lately.

"Thank you for the warning," she said, forcing herself to step back and wipe her eyes, trying to compose herself.

"You're the only one I _can_ warn these days," he said, but it was said tenderly instead of bitterly.

"Well." She tried to smile, but it didn't work.

They stood there in silence for a moment, then Hermione remembered that her parents were around somewhere. She sighed but tried to hide it; Severus wasn't fooled. He cupped his hands around her face and kissed her forehead softly.

"I will see you at home. After," he said, visibly withdrawing inside himself and pulling up the Death Eater persona. She could feel the cold of his Occlumency. He stood tall, the heavy black robes making him seem even bigger than he was. His eyes were dark in his pale face, inscrutable.

She put a hand on his arm and squeezed, then took her wand out again and began lowering the wards. It didn't take long; she was the one who had set them, and the prods by the Death Eaters had been alarmingly successful.

The wards fell with a burst of yellow-green light and a shower of red sparks. Severus walked forward, casting the Dark Mark into the sky and beginning to, quickly and effectively, reduce the house to splinters and dust.

She walked toward the designated tree, locating them by her mother's crying. She took hold of both of them and Disapparated, trying not to hear the crunches coming from her childhood home.

\\\

"Er," Hermione said, suddenly feeling awkward. They'd both thrown up after she'd Apparated them to the flat. She'd cleaned them up and let them in, then realized her parents were in her hall in their pajamas.

They looked at her, blank and a bit numb. She looked around, wondering what they'd see. The hall was narrow, but there was room for a cloak stand and a little bench where they sat to put on their boots. The kitchen was large, with the big table at the far end of it, open to the sitting room at the far end of the counter. The sitting room had the standard assortment of furniture, no television, a stack of old _Daily _Prophets on the coffee table, bookshelves. The bedroom door was closed. Her dishes were still sitting in the sink, the water cold.

"So, this is my flat," Hermione said, gesturing to the place at large. She flicked her wand at the sink, and the water heated to steaming as the dishes began floating around cleaning themselves.

Hermione took the suitcases and put them in a gap between an end table and a bookshelf. After a moment's thought, she transfigured a spare bit of parchment into a small set of drawers and transferred the things her parents would need—clothes, toiletries—to them.

"Honey, you've got blood on your face," her mother said. Hermione nodded, putting her wand in its sheath and walking to the bathroom. She, in fact, had blood all down her front. Her face was splattered with red droplets going brown as they dried, and the mess continued down her chest and a bit on the skirt of her robes.

She took the robes off, dropping them in the bathroom hamper and rolling up the sleeves on the button-down shirt she wore to keep them out of her way as she washed her face. She felt better when she was done, but that just meant that she would begin to feel the morning's events soon.

When she turned, she saw that her parents were standing in the door to the bathroom, watching her. She didn't try to smile. Instead, she looked them over with a Healer's eye, glad to see that they were both alright.

"I'd give you a tour, but there isn't much to see," she said, stepping back into the hall. There was a moment of quiet. "Would you like tea?"

Neither of them said yes, but she made it anyway. They used the plain mugs from the cupboard instead of the fancy set from the top of the fridge.

"I didn't realize it was as bad as that," her father finally said. He'd finished half his tea, and stared down into the mug as he talked.

"I wouldn't have done so much Time Turning if it hadn't been," she said. They hadn't really talked about it yet, and she dreaded the conversation she'd just opened the door to. They'd exchanged letters; she'd explained bits and pieces. She'd planned to go see them the Hogwarts weekend in March, but it had been cancelled and Ron had been poisoned.

"How much did you do it?" her mother asked, she reached out and tucked a curl behind Hermione's ear.

"The headmaster made it sound like you wouldn't do that much. You'd take a few months to study up for your tests, then that course in France for Healing," her dad said. And that was what Dumbledore had said, true enough.

"The headmaster—" She hesitated. "The headmaster wasn't good at sharing the whole of everything, of anything."

Her mother pursed her lips. Her father narrowed his eyes.

"I believe that, at one point, that was the plan. But it grew and kept folding in on itself, getting complicated. I think he was trying to buy himself more time with his cursed arm, send me back for the Healing not just to help Harry and Severus but to help him, then sending me to Alexandria to look into obscure curses on the longshot that I'd find something to prolong his life."

"That's awfully selfish of him," her mum observed.

"Yes, it was," Hermione agreed, but she couldn't be bitter about it. She'd married Severus, after all. That was selfish, too. "I don't blame him, though. It didn't do a lick of good in the end, but I can't blame him for trying. For wanting to live."

"At the cost of your life," her mum said sharply.

"Only the life I expected to have," Hermione said, sitting back in her chair and wondering how to explain it. "I mean, I didn't get to finish school with my friends, but they're not going back to school next year anyway because of the war. I was away, I didn't get to share things with the people I care about, but I still got to do them."

She stood, walking out to the sitting room and retrieving her box of photos from the bottom of the book shelf. They were all wizarding photos, depicting snatches of her life while she was Turning. She and Claude at the Eiffel Tower. She and her roommates from the Healing program sprawled in the sitting room studying for their finals. A single picture of her in the bright green Healer's robes of St. Mungo's, smiling awkwardly and waving at the photographer. A large assortment of photos from the seminar in Salem, where she'd shared a flat with Lizzie the Potions apprentice from Toronto who also happened to be an amateur photographer. A handful of photos of Alexandria the first time around, mostly tourist-y pictures of her, pyramids and sand dunes. Even fewer photos from her second time in Alexandria, her smiling happily from behind stacks of books and scrolls, candids of her and Roger. Two photos from her time in radio: One of just her in the booth talking into the old-fashioned microphone, and the other of her and her coworkers at a pub celebrating something a few weeks before the studio had been blown up. Two of her and Severus, the first from Slughorn's party when she'd been standing with him and trying to hide her laughter over the screaming gingerbread men, and the second of her and Severus in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place bickering about something, gesticulating wildly, still wearing the aprons and gloves of delicate brewing—it was before they'd fallen for each other, but the Severus in the photo kept putting her hair behind her ear tenderly and the Hermione in the photo smiled at him every time he did it.

Her parents went through the box together, looking at each photo as if they were trying to memorize it. The photos of her and Severus were the last in the box, and she couldn't tell if they looked at them the longest because they were the last or for some other reason.

"He was at the house," her dad finally said.

"Yes."

"Who is he?" her dad said, flat and a little forceful.

"He's my husband," she said, then clapped a hand over her mouth. _ I can't believe I just said that. Oh my God, I just said that!_

Her parents were frozen, staring at her. Her mum's mouth was working like she wanted to say something. Her dad's face was doing that really neat crashing trick that arctic ice flows do so well in spring, one expression slipping away to be replaced by another.

"There are no wedding photos in the box," her mum said sharply.

"We didn't get a proper wedding." Her mother's mouth was working again. Her dad, who had the best angle for it, was staring at the bench by the door, under which sat her grubby old trainers and Severus's spare pair of boots. "We signed our marriage license with a witness, that was it. We can't even file it yet. He's a spy."

"A spy," her mother repeated. There was a vein jumping dangerously under her dad's left eye, something she hadn't seen since she'd accidentally mentioned that she'd spent a large chunk of her second year in the hospital wing before realizing that the headmaster hadn't seen fit to inform her parents about it.

Hermione just nodded, as if her mother had asked a question. "And if our names showed up in the Records Office together, we'd be killed. The only question would be if they'd kill him first and then come for me, or come for me first so that they could make him watch."

She regretted the bluntness immediately, but she was so tired of keeping it in. The stress, the secrets… it was exhausting.

Her mother burst into tears. Her father looked stony, still glaring at the boots.

"I am a target. I was always a target, even before I was friends with Harry," Hermione said, grabbing her mother's hands and hanging on. For once she was glad that they got the _Prophet_, that they knew why her being friends with Harry was significant. "I stand for everything the Death Eaters are against. My parents are Muggles, but I was the top of my class, very good at being a witch. I prove that their beliefs are wrong. And I was always at Harry's side, so hurting me would hurt Harry. And hurting you would hurt me."

"It's a war, isn't it?" her mum asked, her fingers clenching in Hermione's. "It's not just politics, or opposing factions finding each other in dark alleys for a brawl. It's a war."

Hermione nodded. "Yes."

She'd been so careful when she was young, tucking away the worst of it because she was afraid they'd try to keep her out of it. The _Prophet _had more information than she'd ever given them, but it was a skewed version. Incomplete at best. While it had finally acknowledged Voldemort's return, the full scope had been held back. The disappearances and attacks on Muggles had been published, but the other things hadn't been noted. The crashing wizarding economy, the way people who weren't even involved in the war asked their loved ones security questions when they returned home at night.

"They keep most of it out of the papers," she said.

"A spy, you say?" her dad asked, finally speaking. He'd turned his hard look on her.

"Yes."

"What's his name?"

"Severus."

"Severus what?"

"Severus Snape."

There was silence at the table. She wondered if they would remember her talking about Professor Snape, the Potions teacher. She'd only mentioned him a few times, being much more enamored with Charms in those very early years, and then talking more about the intricacies of wizarding law in relation to magical creatures or the Triwizard Tournament. Severus had always been involved in the things she knew better than to tell her parents about.

And then she remembered that they got the _Daily Prophet_ and Severus had been picked apart by the paper since the morning edition of the day following Dumbledore's death. The only thing that had gotten more attention was Dumbledore himself—his funeral, and his past (now that he wasn't alive to defend himself or look at potential biographers over the top of his spectacles until they decided they'd rather not write that book anyway).

"The one who—the _murderer_. He killed Headmaster Dumbledore!" her mother screeched.

"He was your teacher!" her father thundered.

She almost laughed. It was just impossible. And ridiculous. Impossibly ridiculous.

"The murder was prearranged between them," Hermione said calmly, looking to her mother. Then she turned to her father, and said, "I haven't been his student in more than ten years."

"You were his student six months ago," he practically growled. "Two weeks ago!"

"It was _never_ like that," Hermione said, setting her mug down more forcefully than she should have. "Spying is dangerous. He gets hurt a lot." It was like explaining Viktor Krum's letter asking her to Bulgaria again, only this time it wasn't an older boy who lived in a different country, it was a man who used to be her teacher and had just reduced their home to dust. "We spent a lot of time together since I stopped the time travel."

"He still _killed_ a man, Hermione. The headmaster. How could he kill Headmaster Dumbledore?" her mum asked. She looked so lost Hermione wanted to give her a hug and some Calming Draught and put her to bed.

"There were… extenuating circumstances. The headmaster had been cursed; he was dying anyway. By stepping in and—speeding things along a bit—Severus cemented his position with the Death Eaters. He's currently persona non grata with wizarding Britain, but it won't be long before Voldemort controls the Ministry. Then _I'll _be persona non grata, and he'll be a king."

Her dad was staring at Severus's spare boots again. She glared at him, but when he turned his head and met her eyes, she looked down into her tea. She had no idea what else to say; anything that came to mind sounded stupid and inadequate.

They sat in silence for awhile. She couldn't tell if they were ruminating on her choice in husband or the morning's adventure. And her mind kept circling back to the plan she and Severus had talked about, the one she'd been hoping to put off for as long as possible. She wanted to not have to Obliviate her parents. She wished they were still living their normal lives in the house they'd lived in since she was born.

"I'm sorry about the house," she said when the silence had gotten so awkward it was making her itchy. They didn't say anything.

She found herself thinking of Dolohov. A strange part of her was just tickled at the way Severus had taken up the sword for her, as it were. It was romantic in a very twisted way.

"It's just a house, Hermione," her mum finally said. Hermione looked up, looked them over carefully. They looked hurt, confused, shell-shocked. Her dad kept staring at the boots. Her mum was looking at the pictures of her and Severus.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you how bad it was," she said, "with the war." She didn't mean recently, because she hadn't really seen them and she couldn't put down any of it in a letter. She meant before that, when she was a student and had been afraid they'd take her away from the magical world.

"I don't think we would have believed you," her mum said. "Not until today."

They sat in the quiet some more. Hermione wished Severus would come home. She was trying very hard not to use Legilimency on her parents.

"Do you have any questions you want me to answer?" she asked at last.

"How do you know you can trust him? Why do you trust him?" her dad asked immediately, almost as if he'd just been waiting for her to give permission, to open the floor.

Hermione took a breath, and then paused to think. Now was really not the time to tell them that she spent a lot of time in her husband's head, that they shared a ridiculous fantasy that involved running away from the world and making lots of babies.

She debated whether she should tell them about Occlumency and Legilimency, about how she and Severus were good enough at mind magic that when they made eye contact or even touched, sometimes, they could share thoughts. She wondered if she should tell them about sitting with him in the hall after Dumbledore died. She wondered if she should talk about the way he protected them when Lupin turned into a wereworlf third year, or the state of him after returning from a Summons.

"I—" she started, then cut herself off. _Where could I even start to answer that?_ "I love him."

"That is _not_ an adequate answer," her dad growled. Hermione sat back, wishing she'd remembered to pick up a bottle of something the last time she'd gone grocery shopping. She really wanted a drink. As it was, she refilled her tea again.

"I can read minds—"

"Pull the other one."

Hermione laughed out loud, and then she couldn't stop laughing. She had to set her tea down.

"That was my reaction, too," she admitted. When Harry had first told her about his experience with the snake and about how he'd have lessons in keeping Voldemort out of his mind, she'd rushed to the library to research (because of course she had). There hadn't been much there because it was so rare—it took too much mental discipline for the everyday wizard—but there had been enough to prove that it was a real thing and make her very interested. "But there's a spell that lets you see into somebody's thoughts and memories. I first learned it from the other side, learned how to keep people from using the spell on me."

"For the war, right?" her dad asked bitterly. "You learned to keep information safe."

"Yes." She paused, waiting to see if he would say anything else about it. When he didn't, she continued. "Once you master keeping people out—that's called Occlumency—the next logical step is Legilimency—the spell for reading minds.

"Severus is the best Occlumens I have ever met. He could keep me out if he wanted, he could keep secrets, but we've been in situations where he couldn't have kept me out without my knowing. He could have kept things secret but I would have known he was shielding something from me." She scrubbed her hands over her face then ran them over her hair, smoothing the flyaway curls around her face back. "It was an uncomfortable experience, actually. It went both ways; we learned more about each other than anybody has any right to know."

She drank her tea, not quite looking at them, remembering that day in Minerva's office. It had been awkward all around, first the shattering of his shields and their minds pressing together unrestrained, then talking about Spain with Minerva.

"I trust him. I love him." She shrugged. "The Order thinks he's a traitor. We both have parts to play in the—in what's to come. We have to let it play out, and we have to hope that we both come out the other side of it."

They sat in silence again. Her parents went back to staring at their respective reminders of Severus, her dad with the boots and her mum with the photographs.

Hermione got up after awhile and made another pot of tea. She was considering pulling out something for them all to eat when she heard the key in the lock. Her parents were tense, eyes boring holes in the door.

Severus stepped through, tearing the Death Eater robes from himself and dropping them at his feet, letting the mask clatter down on top of them. He took a step toward the kitchen and fell to his knees, hands clenched into fists and held tight to his ribs. Hermione's wand was in hand before she realized she was reaching for it, tracing the almost reflexive movements that called up her diagnostic spells.

"What happened?" she asked. "I'd've thought he would be pleased with you."

"If only I were that lucky," he said bitterly. He was listing off to one side and she caught him, helping him lean against one of the cupboards. "The house gone, the parents gone, but the girl escapes and takes out three Death Eaters? He had to vent his frustration somewhere."

Hermione didn't have anything to say. She knew that was the way of it, even if she hated it.

"This will be easiest with you in a chair," she said, hoisting him up and bracing her shoulder into his armpit, helping him make the few steps to the table. She was aware that she had his blood on her and that her parents were staring, but she ignored it. The only actual wound was on his ribs, a long, deep score from a dagger or something had been aggravated by blunt force. He'd probably been slashed, then kicked.

The frock coat was ridiculous to get off him in this state. Buttons at the sleeves, then the long line of buttons from throat to thigh. A whispered spell undid them magically, but it took time. She helped him out of it, letting it droop against the back of the chair instead of making him stand up to get it out from under him. The waistcoat beneath was ruined. His white shirt beneath that was a bloody mess. She stripped him of them, tossing them in the sink to possibly salvage later.

Wounds always looked worse than the diagnostic spells made them seem. It was the blood smeared all over, the bone visible through the cut, the bruising and swelling.

Still ignoring her parents, she handed Severus the pain relief for what she was about to do. After he'd swallowed it down and braced himself against the chair, she began.

Flick of the wand to clear away the blood, another to align the gaping skin. He was weak from blood loss and gasping from the pain of his bruised ribs, but the immediate problem was the long knife wound in his side.

Needle and the charmed thread from the vial in her kit, fingers held just so, and begin.

She could have healed this with a charm, but that would have left a scar. This way, using the thread, she could seal him up without a mark like she'd done to the slice down her face only a few months ago. She preferred doing it that way; it was easier to forget. And it felt, somehow, like she was denying Voldemort to mark him any further, and she liked that.

Severus set his jaw and didn't react as she sewed him up. When she asked him if he was ready at the end of it, he just nodded. She applied the paste that coordinated with the charmed thread, and it sizzled and smoked. It smelled like blood and, oddly enough, cherry syrup. When the little cloud of white smoke dissipated, there was nothing to see. The wound was gone; just the faintest hint of a bruise, and she had a different paste for that.

"Done," she said, not too long after. Bruise Salve had been applied all over his ribs for the boot prints she'd found there, and to the site of the slice.

Severus took her hand—she noted that the back of it was coated in dried blood, though the front was clean from the amount of time she spent wiping it on her jeans in between tasks —and turned it so that he could kiss the cup of her palm. It was a tender gesture, and it melted her heart a little bit. Then he stood and walked out of the kitchen, closing the door to the bathroom behind him with a soft click. The shower turned on a moment later.

She watched him leave the room, then set about making her kitchen back into a kitchen. There was blood all over the table (again), and his bloody clothes in the sink to deal with. The Death Eater robes in the hall. Her kit sitting open on the counter, and the empty potion flasks.

Hermione was halfway through, having cleared away the blood already and repacked her kit, when she realized her mother was quietly crying.

"What's the matter?" she asked, turning as she tried to clear the blood out of her clothes. It was probably another shirt ruined, but the jeans were salvageable.

Her mother gave her a miserable look and fluttered her hands like she wasn't sure what to say. Her father squeezed her mother's hand tightly, and Hermione just nodded. There weren't really words.

She needed to be doing something, so she began to make lunch. It was already past noon. They had sandwich things, and she started putting them together, made more tea. Severus came out of the bathroom and went straight into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He brushed his mind against hers gently, assuring her he wasn't about to crack apart. Just physically and emotionally exhausted, going to have a nap.

"We should probably talk about what happens next."

The lunch dishes were washing themselves in the sink. Her parents had taken turns in the bathroom, freshening up and changing into normal clothes. All Hermione wanted to do was go lie down with Severus for awhile, but that wouldn't happen. It was only a matter of time before the Order found out about her parents' home and tried to check up on her.

She took one of Severus's many cauldrons out of the big drawer in the cupboard where they kept the potions. Before he'd moved in, she'd had three cauldrons; now there were closer to fifty of them Shrunk down to fit in the space. The cauldron she selected was standard pewter and large enough to brew a double batch of Severus's recipe Blood Replenishing Potion.

"What are you doing?" her mother asked, somewhere between distraught and interested.

"I'm brewing Blood Replenishing Potion. I'm down to my last few vials." _And I really don't want to talk about Obliviating you right now, so I'm putting it off with busywork._

The cauldron went on the stovetop, and she turned the fire on low beneath it to begin heating the metal. Potions ingredients were in the smaller drawer in the cupboard, all in round glass jars Shrunk to fit. (It wasn't the ideal way to store ingredients; they'd lose potency more quickly than if they were stored properly, but they simply didn't have the space.) She took out what she needed, smiling at Severus's clever charms work when the jars sprung back to their proper sizes as they cleared the lip of the drawer.

The shredding, chopping and measuring of the potion was soothing in its way. She'd never been able to achieve the zen state Severus did when he was brewing, but she still found it relaxing. The base was bubbling nicely when her dad seemed to come to some sort of decision.

"We'll have to get in touch with the insurance company," he said standing and pouring himself a cup of tea. He hovered near her elbow, watching her finish the base, stirring six times clockwise before raising the flame and stepping back.

"No," she said, turning to clean the cutting board she'd used before pulling out the ingredients she's need for the second half.

"No?" her dad asked, his tone somewhere between skeptical and offended. She nodded somewhat apologetically.

"We have to let them think you're dead. Otherwise they'll try again."

"What?" her mum asked, standing up to join them in the kitchen. She had her arms crossed, her shoulders tense.

"You can't go back. I'll get in touch with the insurance company and get all your finances set for you. But you have to go into hiding until all this is over."

She heard the bedroom door open and the soft tread of feet in socks in the hall. If they were alone, she wouldn't have heard him; he would have come up behind her and wrapped his arms around her and make snide comments on her potion.

"And when will this be over?"

"I don't know, Mum."

_I wish it was over now_, Severus told her silently, pouring himself a cup of tea and sitting in the same chair he had earlier, only this time he wasn't bleeding. She nudged his mind with hers, agreeing with him.

Her parents watched him warily, drawing a bit closer to her. She didn't think they realized that they did it.

_Is it because I'm the husband they didn't know you had or because I tore down their house this morning?_

_A little bit of both, probably._

"So we're supposed to sit in some _safe house_ for an unknown amount of time, not knowing what's happening, not knowing if you're alright, or if you're dead. Not that that's concerned you much in the past, of course."

"Dad, please."

Severus set his cup down too hard, glaring at her father darkly.

What was gearing up to be a highly unpleasant conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Kingsley's lynx Patronus. Her parents jumped, her mother squeaked, and Kinglsey's deep, slow voice filled the room.

"Get someplace safe and lay low. Reply with your status."

"Good God it really is a war," her dad moaned.

Hermione brought out her wand and called up her Patronus, noting absently that it had changed. Since she was sixteen, her Patronus had been an otter. A cheerful thing that tended to bounce around happily. Now it was a fox, big like Severus's but not so sly-looking. Her fox was sleek, the narrow, pointed face serene, the eyes large and unblinking. There was a tear in one ear, just like Severus's. She wondered how long since it had changed.

"I'm safe. I got my parents out," she told the Patronus, and it bounded off through the wall to deliver the message.

"What was that?" her dad asked. Hermione Summoned her Defense book from second year, flipping back to the appropriate page. They hadn't actually covered Dementors second year, they were just in the book. There had been a bit more practical of an introduction to them.

"My Patronus," Hermione said, handing over the book. "They're good for delivering messages because they can't be fooled. They know who the message is intended for and they won't speak to anybody else by mistake."

She turned back to her potion only to find Severus tending to it. She poured herself some tea and stood next to him comfortably while he stirred.

"I thought your Patronus was an otter," Severus said quietly, withdrawing the long-handled spoon he'd been stirring with.

"It used to be."

He turned to look at her, eyes dark and more intense than usual. He leaned over and kissed her gently, and she smiled at him before sipping her tea. She handed him the next ingredient and resisted the urge to sit on the counter next to him while he worked.

Her mum closed the book with a snap and let it thump down on the kitchen table. Hermione bit her lip, wondering if she should be nervous. Her father was quicker to show his anger, but when her mother eventually worked up to it things it could get ugly.

"What a lovely little lesson, Hermione _darling_," her mother snapped. "You know, I think I'm beginning to realize why you haven't been home to see us. The more time we spend together, the more I'm realizing just how little you seem to think of us."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up, and she opened her mouth but she couldn't think of a thing to say.

The next three hours were awful. There was shouting. There were tears.

There had been four major fights in the Granger household in Hermione's memory. One of them had been when she was nine, before they knew she was a witch, and she'd absolutely refused to admit that she'd stolen a particular book from the library (because she hadn't). The other three had all been about Hogwarts, about her going to the Burrow or Grimmauld Place. Only one of those arguments (the one just after fourth year, the first time she went to Grimmauld Place) had lasted more than a day, but it had been resolved before bed the next day, and at the end of the week she'd been at Grimmauld Place. (Of course, that was a major sticking point in her parents' argument this time around—they'd let her go that time and look what had happened.)

It occurred to Hermione, at one point, that Severus's entire childhood had been one elongated argument between his parents, sometimes hooked into it himself, and never resolution.

_My fault. My fault. "You break everything you touch." It's true. Broke her family now, too, just being in the same flat as them. Literally broke their home first._

"Severus!" Hermione shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders. His eyes snapped into focus, finally looking back at her. _This argument was not your fault. It's an old argument recycled. Tension that's been there for awhile coming out because it's less easy to ignore it._

_I know that. Rationally, I can see it…_

_If your parents weren't dead, I'd give them _such_ a piece of my mind—_she glanced away quickly, not meaning for him to catch that one. But, of course, he did. And he smirked, and she watched the phantom of his childhood fall away. He kissed her temple and turned to the cauldron, Vanishing the ruined potion and beginning again. She turned back to her parents.

They sat at the table, talking quietly, throwing glances toward her and Severus every few seconds. Somewhere in all the shouting, she'd explained her plan to them. Neither of them liked it, but the more they'd… discussed… it, the closer they'd gotten to agreeing to it.

"But why take our memories?" her mum asked again.

"So that you can't get curious and try to find out what's happening. It removes the entire possibility of somebody finding you by accident because you were asking around."

"Have a little faith, dear," her father grumbled. "We'd know better than to just walk up and ask a random person on the street if they know how things are faring with the war."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond (though her response—that she expected they might do just that if they were worried enough—would not have been productive), but a special edition of the _Prophet_ arrived instead.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she said when she saw the front page. She'd quite forgotten the fall from grace. Even worse than when the world had found out she was going with Viktor Krum and thought Harry Potter was torn up about it.

The article above the fold was about her parents. There was a prominent photo of the remains of the house, the Dark Mark floating overhead. Her photo, the ID badge photo they'd taken for her internship at St. Mungo's, was at the top of the right-hand column, looking out at the reader and occasionally smiling without showingany teeth.

Somebody—and she strongly suspected it was Mundungus Fletcher, mostly because it was _always _Mundungus Fletcher—had leaked the fact that Dumbledoer had had her messing about with time. They didn't report just how much, but it was made clear that she'd _aged _herself quite a bit, and that it was a little odd that she'd been at Hogwarts acting as a student after the New Year.

They knew about "Dumbledore's dragon," too, which wasn't surprising. Barely half the kills she'd made were attributed to her, but she was willing to give them time to catch up. The morning's deaths of Crabbe, Goyle and Dolohov, respected Obliviators who arrived at the scene to sort out the Muggles who had witnessed the awful destruction of her family home, were attributed to her. She was unhinged, dangerous. They'd labeled her Undesirable Number One. She didn't have a wanted poster yet, but she was willing to give them time for that, too.

Page three held a sordid breakdown of her time at Hogwarts, her descent into criminality, her Dark association with a Durmstrang student (no mention that he was a well-liked international celebrity) at a young age, the unnatural closeness with Dumbledore (who was remarkably bad in the press at the moment, too, mostly from the leaked tidbits of Rita Skeeter's upcoming memoir), and her "questionable closeness" with Harry Potter.

The rest of the paper was just the usual tripe. The Head of Magical Law Enforcement was pioneering new safety measures, fighting for the average witch and wizard from the conference rooms of the Ministry. The Dementor problem in Bath had been sorted out, more or less. Noted novelist and wireless personality Laurel Williams had died at the ripe age of one hundred and twenty-eight of natural causes; she was remembered by her sons, Ezra and Patrick, and there would be a memorial service open to the public next Tuesday. No word on the latest developments from Harry Potter, but Percy Weasley, brother of Potter's best friend from Hogwarts School, was glad to wax lyrical on several topics across the back page.

"I might vomit," Hermione said, handing the paper across to her parents because there was no point keeping it from them.

She glanced at Severus, letting him see the articles in her mind, then took some roots that needed shredding and set to work. She needed to keep her hands busy, and she was damned if she was going to clean things. There wasn't anything to clean, anyway.

"But, this—" her father spluttered indignantly, "—this is downright slander!"

"Really, I'm just glad they spelled my name right," Hermione said. "And just you wait. This is going to be a trend. Tomorrow they'll have dug something else up to talk about, and they'll probably start dragging Harry through it, too. It's a smear campaign, but not just for me. It's a transition. It's the public image side of the coup taking place in the Ministry."

She let that sink in for a minute, going to the front closet and rummaging around for the Unbreakable vials in the felt bandolier Severus had received for Christmas. The vial with Minerva's memory of their wedding—or at least the signing of their marriage license—was the only one with anything in it. She could hear them talking quietly, but didn't make an effort to listen in.

Severus finished the potion and began decanting it into vials. When he finished, he set his things to cleaning themselves in the sink and pulled her into his arms, holding her close with his chin on her head. She wrapped her arms around him and wondered if her parents would ever consent to going into hiding or if she'd be sending them against their will.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, not sure if she was asking about his recently healed side or the aftermath of the fight.

"Fine," he said, shrugging and pulling back to smooth a hand over his ribs. "That's always the odd part—all the awful things that can happen with no real lasting harm."

"I really don't feel like debating 'real lasting harm' right now," she said. He wore a soft long-sleeved t-shirt, and she rubbed the spot on his ribs she'd so recently healed through it.

"Good," he said, chuckling without real humor.

They continued to leave her parents to themselves, letting them talk through things in the living room. They made soup, chopping and stirring. Hermione sliced up what was left of a baguette and put it in the oven to toast.

Dinner was awkward. Her father glared at Severus but didn't say a word. Her mother stared at the table, taking too much time eating her soup. Hermione and Severus made conversation in their minds, not wanting to break the bubble of silence because they really didn't want to experience the conversation that would come out of it.

Severus took care of the washing up while Hermione modified the furniture in the living room. The sofa expanded into a bed, the coffee table shrunk down to be an end table, the rest of the furniture squeezed out of the way.

By silent agreement, none of them talked about anything. There were perfunctory explanations of where the extra toilet paper and clean towels were, and quiet goodnights. Hermione brushed her teeth.

"If you need anything, just knock," she said, gesturing to the bedroom door. Her parents nodded mutely, and she left them for the night.

Severus hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, but that was fine. She knew where everything was and had fairly good night vision, besides. He hadn't bothered to put on pajamas, so neither did she. She wanted to be close to him, to feel skin on skin and be comforted.

He watched her undress, watching her with dark, intent eyes. She leaned forward when she finished and kissed along the line of fresh pink skin at his ribs. By morning it would be as pale as the rest of him, unnoticeable. When she finished kissing the not-scar, she kissed the old scars along his ribs near it.

Severus wrapped his arms around her, pulling her down onto the bed with him. He was much bigger than she was, and that was annoying sometimes but not right now. Right now, she could pretend Severus was the only thing in the world; she could hang onto him and not feel as though her life was spinning out of control.

"I love you," he murmured into her hair, and she squeezed him tighter.

"I love you, too."

She looked up at him, and he brought his lips down to hers. It began soft and tender, but quickly escalated. He pulled her up to him, and his erection pressed into the top of her thigh, hot and throbbing.

Hermione grabbed him by the head, weaving her hands into his hair none too gently. She wanted him, all of him, right now, in her and around her and everywhere. She ground her hips into him, moving her legs around him, missing a bit and pressing his erection down instead of in.

He groaned deep, holding her close with his hands across her back for a moment, then pulling away to reposition. He twisted her bodily with an arm around her waist, pressing her into the bed on her stomach. He lay on top of her, holding the lines of their bodies together. His erection was settled in the dip where thigh turned into ass, not quite penetrating. He ground his hips against her and she gasped.

"Up," he whispered, getting off her and trying to move her again, but their legs were tangled together. "On your knees."

She grabbed the headboard, pulling herself forward so that his legs weren't pinning hers to the bed. She gasped as she slid forward, nipples scraping along the soft fabric of the sheet. He reacted to the gasp behind her, bracing a hand on her hip as he crawled up behind her on his knees.

He took her by the hair as he leaned over her, pulling her head back so that he could suck on her neck while he entered her from behind. One hand held her like that, arched back into him, and the other explored, first squeezing a breast, pinching a nipple, teasing down to where their bodies were connected.

"Severus," she gasped, and he left off, withdrawing to a singular wonderful focus. She held onto the headboard for all she was worth, matching his fast, rocking movement with her hips and he slammed up into her again. Again.

"Yes," she was repeating, "yes, yes!" He was breathing hard, each thrust punctuated by a deep grunt that was delightfully male.

His thumb found her clitoris again, and she exploded, clenching around him, her entire body arching backwards with the pleasure of it.

They were flat on the bed again when she came around. He was mostly on top of her, his hands idly cupping her breasts, fingertips teasing along the sensitive undersides.

"I do, you know," she said at long last. She was very sleepy. _Shagged out_, the thought made her smile.

"Hm?" Severus hummed questioningly.

"I love you." She wanted to turn around so that she could look him in the eye as she said it, but she was too comfortable. He pulled her closer, rolling them onto their sides and burying his face through her hair so that he could kiss that particular spot on her neck.

"And I love you," he replied, muffled by the thickness of her hair.

\\\

She woke before he did. There was pale light coming through the bedroom window, dimmed by the curtains but undeniable.

She was still wrapped up in him, though not quite so tightly since he was relaxed in sleep. He was warm behind her, and solid. The idea of the war was so much easier to manage here in his arms; she felt like she could handle it, like it would be worth it to go and fight even if it was just so that she could come back to this place.

She wondered what he was dreaming about. He was hard as a rock. She couldn't guess if that was just a hazard of a man in the morning, or if he was having a particularly nice dream.

Hermione turned in his arms, and he began to wake. She kissed him, trapping his face between her hands and kissing along his eyebrows, down his nose, across his cheekbones. When he smiled, she kissed his lips. He was awake.

They were still gloriously naked. She stroked her hand along his side, flicking over his ribs and the mended skin, following the line of his hip down. He groaned, leaning his forehead into hers.

Last night, they had fucked. This morning, they made love.

She pushed him back flat on the bed and straddled his chest, leaning over him to kiss him. His hands found their place on her hips, pulling her to him. His groan was deep, vibrating through her hands on his chest.

They kissed, long and deep, and then she sat up, tossing her hair out of her way, giving herself an unobstructed view of him. He was beautiful, to her biased eye, lying there below her. His hair was dark on the white sheets, tangled off to one side. His eyes so dark in the pale face, thrown into sharp relief by the early morning light. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, proud Roman nose.

She let her eyes trail down over him, leisurely. The smooth skin of his throat, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Broad shoulders speckled with shining white scars. Flat nipples, begging her to brush her thumb over them. He was too thin, and his ribs were easily visible in his chest. Scars everywhere, like she had. A dusting of black hair down his chest, thickening below his naval to lead the way down.

She glanced up at him when her eyes reached his cock, smirking at the look in his eyes. He had his hands fisted in the sheets on either side of her knees, obviously forcing himself to let her look, to not grab her and slam her onto him until she'd finished.

She touched him, fingers wrapping around, squeezing, pulling just slightly. He moaned long and low, his hips twitching beneath her. His hands found her knees, fingertips trailed up and down her thighs. He gasped her name when she teased a finger along the tip of him.

It was too much. She had to have him in her; she couldn't tease anymore.

She leaned forward, spreading her knees around his hips to lower herself onto him, and he guided her down with gentle hands on her waist. She whimpered as he disappeared fully into her, leaning down onto his chest to kiss him again. He held her there for a long moment, leaning up to meet her mouth.

Hermione sat back, grinding her hips down against his with the movement. They set a relaxed pace, rolling their hips together, letting it slowly build between them. She watched him as she moved, holding on to his forearms, his hands warm on her waist.

She met his eyes and let her thoughts wander over to him. It was all sensation, pleasure, nothing coherent. He groaned, eyes pools of inky black sucking her in. She dropped willingly onto the surface of his mind as they moved, feeling his own pleasure, the happy thrum deep in his chest whenever she was near.

She was weeping, like an idiot, again, but neither of them minded. He sat up beneath her, pulling her to his chest. Their combined emotions were overwhelming, but she was loathe to break the connection.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._ The thought was on loop, in time with the little movements they were managing with their hips. She didn't know if it originated with her or with him, but it didn't matter.

He stilled their movement, holding her to him and kissing her for the world. His tongue and his cock, connecting her to him, his arms around her. As close as humanly possible.

She was already beginning to come apart when he broke the kiss, twisting them so that she was beneath him on the bed and he could thrust into her, deep and urgent.

"Hermione," he gasped, losing it. His seed burst in her somewhere deep, hot and familiar. That alone would have been enough to send her over the edge, but she was still there on the surface of his mind and felt his release.

She arched back, eyes closed, entirely losing her sense of the world except for Severus pressed to every inch of her skin.

Then he was beside her, breathing hard. His hand was still on her waist, his head back buried in her hair kissing along the line of her neck.

Twenty minutes later, they were dressed and presentable for company. Instead of trying to sneak to the bathroom, they'd used charms to clean themselves. She'd directed his spells for shaving. They would've been out sooner, but they kept pausing for lingering kisses.

* * *

**A/N: 10 points to anybody who caught the Douglas Adams reference!**


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Severus was in a very good mood when they left the bedroom, but it came crashing around his ears rather quickly.

"Letter for you, _Professor_," the father said, a particularly sharp emphasis on the title.

"Thank you," Severus replied neutrally, taking the thick parchment envelope. He knew what it was the moment he touched it. The thick wax seal on the back was the ornate "H" of the Hogwarts crest. He'd had one every summer since he was eleven, short the two directly following his seventh year. It was early, though, and this one wasn't from Dumbledore.

_We the Board of Governors would gladly like to offer you the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

It was a lengthy letter. It told him all about his long years of service to the school, his exemplary reputation as Head of House, his contributions to his field despite the rigorous duties of his post. Whichever of the Governors had written it liked adjectives too much.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, pulling him out of the letter. He'd opened it at the table while the toast was down.

"It's—I'm—" He took a breath, striving for equilibrium. "They've named me Headmaster."

"Headmaster!" the mother said.

"What?" the father said.

"That was the whole point, wasn't it?" Hermione asked over them both. He blinked at her.

"Yes." _It's still jarring, though. Dumbledore is Headmaster of Hogwarts. Not me._

"Eat your toast, Severus," she said, her voice amused and patient. She put a plate in front of him, toast spread with jam, and turned away to see to tea. He was overwhelmed for a long moment, not by the appointment but by Hermione. _She's wonderful. Just takes everything in stride and keeps on..._

He ate his toast, setting the letter aside for the moment. He would have to go to Hogwarts in the afternoon. There would be meetings. He'd have to smirk and look down his nose at them, which wouldn't be hard, but it would be in the Head's office and Dumbledore's portrait would be there.

Hermione and her parents were talking. It was a stilted conversation; the parents were tense. He wondered if it was because of the argument yesterday or if it was something else. He glanced up and met the father's eyes.

It was right there on the surface. Mr. Granger was staring, able to think of little else. That was why the conversation was so stilted, or at least part of it.

The image in the father's mind was crystal clear, beautiful to Severus but probably something different to the other man. Apparently the letter had arrived early, and they had assumed it was urgent. Mr. Granger had knocked, but the charms on the door meant they hadn't heard. It hadn't been locked, though, so he'd opened the door to wake them.

The morning light filtering through the curtains made everything shine. Hermione was moving in a very particular way on the bed, her legs caught up in the sheets, her hands holding onto his arms. Her curls rolled around her head, as beautiful from the back as it had been watching it from the front. Shadows played across her skin, the hills and valleys of the scars on her back catching the light.

The Severus of the thought groaned, the sound deeper, different than he was used to it. Then his own face, eyes locked on Hermione's. It was embarrassing to see things written so clearly across his own face after spending a lifetime guarding his expression.

The pair in the memory stilled their rocking to kiss. It was the sort of kiss that made him want to blush and look away, and that was odd considering what they'd been doing seconds before. They spun after a moment that hung in time, but the parents (the mother had joined the father at the door at some point) ducked out, closing the door.

Severus blinked, reflecting that it didn't seem to be the sex that had the father so focused on the memory, it was his daughter's scars.

Severus glanced at Hermione, noticing for the first time just how covered up she was and had been since her parents had joined them. In fact, the only one currently visible was the little white nick on her neck. They had seen the worst of the scars that morning, and that had been a shock even to him the first time he'd seen them.

A glance at the mother's eyes told him that she was focused on the same thing, though the sex was stuck in her mind more than it had been in Mr. Granger's.

Deliberately, Severus rolled up his sleeves. The Dark Mark was accompanied by the usual run of scars from so many years of potion-making, including a particularly ghastly gnarled bit of flesh just below his right elbow from the only cauldron he'd ever exploded. Hermione had a nice habit of kissing it when they were relaxing together.

It didn't take long.

"I suppose that's from an amputation, then," Mr. Granger said, pointing at the scar by Severus's elbow.

Severus looked up from pretending to reread his letter. "Amputation?"

Hermione looked between the pair of them, blinking curiously as she paid the _Prophet _owl for the morning paper. She gave him a shrewd look when she noticed his sleeves.

"You get sliced open like you did last night and it heals without a trace. What the hell kind of injury do you have to have to leave a scar like that?" the father asked. His hands were shaking, and he put down his cup and saucer to hide it.

Severus glanced at Hermione, wondering what she'd like him to say, but she seemed stunned.

"I exploded a cauldron when I was sixteen," he said, turning his arm so that the scar was on fully display. "My immediate concern was containing the damage—it was a rather noxious explosion. I used a charm to heal my arm; I didn't stop to use potion and spelled thread." He prodded the scar a bit, running his finger over the familiar lump of it. "Charms heal perfectly fine, but they almost always leave scars. Even for the little things. Like all these on my hands from knives slipping over the years while preparing ingredients."

"Merlin's left nut," Hermione swore, cutting off further conversation. They all looked at her, and she handed the paper to Severus.

He was fuming by the time he finished the front page story. There was more—details on page six!—but he shoved the paper away. Hermione put her hands on his shoulders and squeezed, more of a warning than a comfort.

"Calm down, Severus. You'll shatter the windows." She kissed his cheek and took his plate. He noted how carefully she was avoiding looking at her parents, who had picked up the paper when he'd tossed aside.

Severus forced himself to breathe. She was right; he was making the glass in the windows shudder.

The sources were all carefully anonymous, which was a good thing because he felt inclined to wring some necks at the moment. Multiple people had talked to a _Daily Prophet_ reporter (also not listed, he noted now) about the Muggle Fights in Spain. About Hermione's involvement. It was a long piece on her "fall from grace." How she'd been seduced by the lure of time. How she'd been in the Fights for months without escape, only coming loose from them when the stadium had so grandly burnt to the ground.

_It's probably a good thing they don't think she's the one to have burned it all. That might lead back to Remy Bird, and they might feel obligated to look into his death. Not likely, but they might._

She nodded at him from across the kitchen, agreeing with his thought.

The parents were in shock. They assumed that the story was entirely false and that was why Severus was bothered by it. He hoped she would let them keep that assumption. He didn't get to stay and find out, though. He had to meet the school governors.

\\\

Severus returned after a long afternoon at Hogwarts. It was over and done with. His position was secure; the office had admitted him. Dumbledore's portrait had, thankfully, feigned sleep for the duration of the meeting.

He wasn't sure how he felt about being back. It had been the plan all along; he had known it was coming. He didn't feel guilty about killing the headmaster, but… But.

Severus put it out of his mind and entered their flat. Hermione had sent her parents off while he was away. She was sitting in the kitchen when he arrived, his bandolier of Unbreakable vials on the counter behind her with three vials of memory in it now—the new ones were simply labeled _Mum_ and _Dad_. She sat staring at the folded up copy of the morning's _Prophet_. He wondered which page he would rate as the new headmaster, if he'd get an evening edition like she had.

"Think we ought to keep it for posterity?" he asked.

"I was going to burn it, actually. I just wanted to wait in case you wanted to read the rest of it first."

"Is there anything worth reading in there?"

"Well, there is a nice description of my tits on page six," she said tonelessly. "Apparently one of the sources thought they might be something that helped me survive all those fist fights with big hulking men." She turned to look at him. "A distraction."

"I certainly don't need some words in the newspaper to tell me how nice your tits are," Severus said, raising an eyebrow at her. He was relieved when she smiled.

He joined her at the table and watched her burn the newspaper away. It was past supper time, but he didn't think he could eat. She didn't look particularly inclined, either.

Not five minutes after she'd burned the morning's edition, the evening edition arrived. He was on the front page this time. "A New Headmaster for Hogwarts" detailed his loyalty to the school and his credentials, expounding on his half-blood status and including quotes from former students on his teaching abilities and helpfulness. In the final paragraph, it explained away the accusations from the Chosen One as stress from an unauthorized outing with Dumbledore, hinting at a future article about how the former headmaster had been losing it in his old age, and how his relationship with "Young Mr. Potter" hadn't been entirely what it should have been.

_And now we begin_, he thought. She nodded.

"Will you do the honors, then?" He held up the paper and she burned it away like the first.

They sat quietly at the table for awhile longer. He wondered if the Dark Lord would Summon him, but didn't expect it. He was fulfilling his task, and the article in the paper proved it. The Dark Lord would be focusing on the Ministry. Within the week, Potter would be moved from his aunt's house.

* * *

**A/N: It was from** **_Life, the Universe and Everything_. "His face froze for a second or two and then began to do that terribly slow crashing trick that Arctic ice floes do so spectacularly in the spring." (Not a big reference, but I pulled it out almost word-for-word, so it deserved a comment.)**

**Also, don't worry**— **we _will_ see a proper confrontation between Severus and the parents. Just not yet. (It's one of the bits that got moved around when I rewrote things after my trip. I think I like it better where I've put it, but you can all give me your feedback where that's concerned when it comes around!)**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

They went to Hogwarts the next day. Severus woke her early, blankets thrown off the bed, fingers and tongue deep inside her.

"Good morning," he hummed when her aftershocks subsided, sliding up to lie with her and hold her close. She kissed him, tasting herself in his mouth. Her skin was twitching with little happy shivers.

"Good morning." She ran her hands along him, finding his cock between them and guiding it into her. He groaned, kissing her, rolling them so that he was on top.

Hermione pulled her knees up, moving with him. His fingers locked with hers above her head. His eyes didn't leave hers as he began moving. He thrust deep each time, sliding almost out of her and them slamming back in. She was gasping, shouting his name.

"I wish every morning could be like this," he said, pulling her close again and burying his face in her hair. His lips brushed her neck as he spoke, setting her shivering with anticipation all over again.

"When the war is over, every morning will be like this," she said. She looked into his eyes and dared him to contradict her. _When the war is over_, she thought, and hoped he wasn't listening in, _we will either have won, in which case we can do this every morning, died, in which case we'll hopefully be together in some afterlife and can lie together for eternity, or the Dark Lord will have won, and with any luck Severus will still be a member of the inner circle and he'll be able to claim me as a Mudblood slave for services rendered or something._

_Not that, _he thought back to her, glaring. He'd been listening in, which was annoying, but they really couldn't help it most of the time.

"I love you, Severus."

He kissed her.

They went about the morning as if the world wasn't spinning sideways, or tried to. They lay in bed for a bit snogging like teenagers—exuberant, enthusiastic kisses—then went to the kitchen and she cooked eggs while he stood nearby flirting. Then they showered, working up the muster for another good fuck. She screamed her climax, screamed his name, and he burst in her, holding her close and standing there in the stream of hot water.

Severus dressed in his teaching robes, which she hadn't seen in awhile. They hung well on him, adding to his imposing figure. She trailed her fingers down a seam in the flowing fabric under his arm, tucking it into proper place. It was odd seeing him in the familiar robes after so long in more casual summer robes or even jeans. She told him so, and he laughed.

"I prefer jeans, actually," he said, sliding his wand up his sleeve and tucking a curl behind her ear. She was dressed in full robes, too—deep plum brocade. "Don't tell."

She caught the hand that had tucked her hair and turned it palm up so that she could kiss it right in the middle, the way he had the night they'd rescued her parents. "Never."

"I love you, witch," he said, his voice tight. She smiled at him, and he turned his hand in her grasp so that he could cup her cheek. His gaze was intense; it was like he was looking straight through her face and into her soul." When this is over, I will follow you to the end of the world, Hermione Snape."

She felt the tears coming and wished they wouldn't. They didn't have time to cry. _She _didn't have time to cry. (_Why the hell couldn't she stop _crying_ lately?_) They had to go to Hogwarts and make sure the wards accepted her as the spouse of the headmaster, just in case. They had to save the whole fucking world.

"Oh, my darling, don't cry," he said, pulling her close. His hand was on the back of her head, holding her to his chest, and he wrapped the other arm around her, too. His voluminous robes settled around them, warm and comfortable, smelling of potions ingredients and the cold stone walls of the Hogwarts dungeons.

"It already is the end of the world, Severus," she said when she could. She'd fisted her hands in his robes, and that helped ground her.

Severus pulled back, putting a hand on each side of her face and looking her in the eye. His eyes were black. Ink. So much swirling emotion and intensity, and somehow the rest of the world thought he was cold and withdrawn.

"It isn't the end of the world. Not yet." He kissed her forehead. "That's why we fight."

And if he, of all people, could say something like that, she had to believe it was true.

* * *

They passed the morning packing. One way or the other, they wouldn't be coming back to the flat much for the duration. Hermione would be with the Order, with Potter. He would be at Hogwarts.

"What are you going to do with these?" he asked, peering into the last box. They'd been through most of everything; he'd just extracted the useful things from his bedside table and Vanished the rest, and she had the last boxes from the back of the closet on the bed. The box he was looking into contained school books from her first years at Hogwarts. He picked up _Magical Me_ off the top of the box, gritting his teeth with a palm-sized Lockhart grinned smarmily up at him, tossing his hair.

_I spent an alarming amount of time that year trying not to punch that man in the throat_, he reflected.

"Keep them for the kids, I think," she said. Her back was to him as she sorted through a different box of books so she didn't see him grab the foot of the bed for support when his knees suddenly gave out.

_So offhand. Just—'the kids.' As if they're a given._

_Of course, they're a given, Severus_. She was looking straight at him now, projecting that thought into him.

He sat down on the bed. He looked down at the book in his hand again, watching the Lockhart on the cover adjust the drape of his cloak.

"You'll keep this one for the kids?" He couldn't help it if 'the kids' came out a bit tighter than the other words.

"Hm?" Hermione walked around to look at what he was holding. "Oh hell no. I thought I got rid of that ages ago. Look, here's the one from the toad, too."

She dumped the box out and quickly sorted them into Keep and Pitch piles.

Severus smiled as he watched, remembering. In the first months of her first year, she'd been the only Gryffindor he'd been able to tolerate—she was more like a Ravenclaw, with her hand constantly in the air, her complete and timely homework assignments, and her quiet demeanor. But then she'd become friends with Potter and Weasley, and the rest was history. He had mourned the loss of a decent student, watched her turn into a delinquent. Worse, a clever delinquent. Potter and Weasley plotted, and she made the plots reality. A teacher's nightmare, and now a thorn in the Dark Lord's side.

"You know," he said, picking up her first year Potions book. "Minerva used to spend long hours lamenting the state of your education." She raised an eyebrow at him. "She'd wax lyrical on how those boys had corrupted you, how they would drag you down. If Dumbledore was unfortunate enough to visit the staff room at the same time she was marking something of yours, she'd pounce on him. Talk his ear off about how it was only a matter of time before _those two_ got themselves expelled—there were only so many _excuses_ that could be made—and she _wished_ he would _do_ something to keep them from dragging her _precious Miss Granger_ down with them."

"That's 'the precious Madam Snape' now," she corrected, tapping the tip of his nose with a fingertip.

Severus smirked at her. Thinking of her as his wife, hearing her call herself Madam Snape, was not commonplace. He hadn't adjusted to it yet. It snuck up on his more often than not, making parts of him go melty. And other parts tended to do the opposite of melt.

"You are precious, Madame Snape," he said, cursing his own sentimentality but unable to keep himself from it, apparently. It made her smile, though.

"And you, Master Snape." She was teasing him, smiling. Flirting.

_Do people normally flirt with their spouses? How the hell does this work?_

"I suppose it would be Headmaster Snape, not Master."

"Master is still correct," he said, making a grab for a conversation he knew how to have. Official titles he could handle. Flirting could be shelved for later. "Masters of any subject are always Masters—or Madams, as the case may be." He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and suddenly the flirting was back off the shelf. _Damn_. "And, to be perfectly honest, I would really rather you didn't call me Headmaster."

"What about Professor Snape?" she asked, and then they both winced.

"Decidedly not," he said, scowling. She wrinkled her nose, shaking her head.

"Agreed."

They were quiet for a bit, letting the elephant settle into the room with them.

"I was surprised your parents didn't make more of a fuss about that particular point," he said eventually.

"I think they were more concerned about the part where they walked in on us this morning," she replied. He met her eyes, surprised to see the twinkle there.

"As far as I could tell," he said slowly, knowing it would ruin the mood if he said it but still wanting to say it, "they were more hung up about scars than they were about sex."

"Yes," she said.

Hermione looked down at her arms. They were covered in little lines, some from brewing but some obviously not. He knew the story for most of them. And then there were the swirls from the Cruciatus. Her parents wouldn't know what those were from, but they would have been curious. He was glad there hadn't been time for that conversation.

"Dodged that bullet, for the moment," she said, looking up from her arms to smile at him again. He was just as glad as she was to set the conversation aside.

They finished their packing quickly. They left most of the things in the flat; they could come back if they desperately needed any of it, after all. He took particular pleasure in watching her burn the Ministry-approved Defense Against the Dark Arts texts, and Vanished the ashes for her.

Finished, they retired to the sitting room. He lay back on the sofa and she settled into the space conveniently made between his legs with the one leg stretched out along the cushions and the other foot on the floor. She sat back against his chest, and he moved her hair so that it was on his shoulder instead of in his face.

"Does it bother you, Severus?" she asked after quite awhile.

"Does what bother me?"

"That I was your student." She sounded like she wasn't sure she wanted to know. "It was more recent for you than for me. I don't actually think of it very often."

"Not really," he said. "Sometimes I catch myself thinking about how I'm glad you grew out of this or that, or thinking of an essay you wrote for Potions, but—" He sighed. He wasn't sure how to explain it. "I don't think of it often, either. And you've really changed so much since you were in my classroom. Or at least when you were truly a student sitting in my classroom."

"I certainly don't feel like I'm the same person who sat in your classroom."

Deliberately, he ran his hand down the line of her neck, around the outside of her breast, down her ribs, spreading his fingers at her waist and settling his hand on her hip. "No, you certainly don't."

* * *

"Your father asked me if you were okay," Severus said. Hermione had just settled into a pleasant head space where she wasn't thinking of anything at all, just relaxing into the warmth of him.

"What did you tell him?"

"She's clever, and she's strong, and she will make it," he said, the timbre of his voice telling her that he was repeating it the way he'd said it to her dad.

"That's not really an answer."

He chuckled, the vibration of his chest tingling nicely through her.

"He didn't really want an answer."

"Hm."

After that, Severus got up to make lunch. She liked to watch him; it was almost like watching him in Potions class. Steady hands chopped and stirred. It was soothing.

She didn't get much time to watch him this time around. He made some sort of sauce and spread it on bread, added meat, lettuce and cheese, then grabbed the bag of crisps and brought it out to her on the couch.

"Thank you."

She had no idea what he'd put in the sauce, but it was very good. They sat for a bit, eating and chatting about nothing. Hermione washed up because he had put it all together. After, they were back on the couch holding each other.

"So how _did_ it go with your parents?"

"Good." She sighed. Her hands drew nervous lines up and down his forearms. "Great. I forged a bunch of paperwork. Removed myself from their minds. It was awesome."

"Necessary, though."

"Yes." There was another pause. "I sent them to Melbourne. I don't know where they'll go from there, but first they'll be in a nice hotel in Melbourne and they'll feel inclined to travel Australia."

"Try thinking of it as a vacation," he suggested, knowing it was a stupid suggestion. She laughed without humor.

"An involuntary one."

"It will keep them safe."

They left for Hogwarts twenty minutes later.

\\\

The school was completely empty.

Oh, there were the ghosts and house elves, but there were no witches or wizards. Hagrid wasn't even there. Severus explained that it was part of the turnover process, the castle recognizing and accepting the headmaster before the start of his first term. It was also part of his killing Dumbledore and the other professors not wanting anything to do with him.

At the gate, Severus tapped the heavy square in the middle where there would be a keyhole on a Muggle gate. The wards shimmered blue when he did. She did the same thing, and this time the wards shimmered colorlessly, like heat rising off pavement.

They closed the gates behind them and walked across the grounds hand in hand. It was the first time they'd held hands in what was technically a public place. It made her heart beat a little faster, and she squeezed his hand. He looked down at her, smiling, and squeezed back. It made her tear up again.

"This is bloody ridiculous," she said, wiping the tears away with her free hand. _You'd almost think I was pregnant_, she thought, and almost laughed at herself aloud. She took a very reliable contraceptive potion once a year. It was technically good for closer to two years, but overlapping the doses made it a guarantee. The only things that could counteract the potion was the actual antidote, for when a baby was desired, or Blood Replenishing Potion, and she hadn't had any of that.

"It's lovely here," Severus said, ignoring her tears and her complaints about them. They had stopped walking, standing at a point on the path from the gates where the grounds opened up for a view almost as good as the one from the lake. The castle was in full view, the lake shimmering off to one side, the goals of the Quidditch pitch just visible off to the other side. Looking down and over, there was Hagrid's hut.

"Magical," Hermione said, and neither of them caught the pun.

"Some of the most miserable experiences of my life have happened in this place, and I still love it here."

"It's Hogwarts," Hermione said, understanding him perfectly.

Instead of going in, as Severus seemed to have expected, Hermione took him around to Dumbledore's tomb. When he realized where they were going, his footsteps slowed, but he didn't stop or protest. They stood for a long time at the tomb, and for once their thoughts were their own. Hermione still hated Dumbledore most of the time, but she wasn't glad he was dead.

The castle was even emptier than the grounds, or at least they felt that way. It wasn't impossible even during the school year to find the grounds empty at the right time. The castle was never empty. There were always people dashing to class or Quidditch, or just milling about.

Severus tapped the gargoyle that guarded the headmaster's office with his wand, and it obligingly stepped out of the way. He held her close on the moving staircase, squeezing her almost too tightly when he opened the door to Dumbledore's office.

It was exactly as it always was. Strange contraptions all around, tall bookcases, and the portraits of former headmasters. And there was Albus Dumbledore directly behind the desk. His painted self was only a touch smaller than life size. He wore pale blue robes. He sat in a Gryffindor red wingback. Dumbledore was looking at them over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. The rest of the portraits were doing the same, though most of them didn't have the spectacles. The room was absolutely silent.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, smiling warmly. "Welcome."

"Headmaster," Severus replied, his voice trembling only slightly. Hermione squeezed his hand.

"And Miss Granger? What a surprise," Dumbledore said. He didn't look surprised, though. In fact, he looked downright unhappy to see her.

"The new headmaster always brings his wife to set the wards," Severus said sharply. He was glaring at his predecessor's painted form.

"His _wife_?" Dumbledore asked, and the question was echoed by a few other portraits around the room. One of them, Phineas Nigelus if she wasn't mistaken (he had a portrait at Grimmauld Place), cackled.

"Indeed," Severus said darkly.

They entered the office properly. It was a beautiful room, or would be if it wasn't so cluttered. The instruments on their tables filled the foyer area of the room. There was a fireplace off to one side with comfortable-looking armchairs and Fawkes's empty perch. The nook on the opposite side had a large cabinet and a decorative table with a chess set on it, the pieces spread across the board mid-game. There were archways on either side of the desk, both leading to a small private sitting area with a pair of comfortable sofas and many bookcases; there was a floor-to-ceiling window along the outside wall of that room, giving a perfect view of the grounds. Almost hidden next to the fireplace was a spiral staircase made of the same stone as the walls; the only reason she'd noticed it was because there were no portraits hanging on it.

The two of them went around the room. Severus would tap something with his wand and it would shimmer blue, then she would tap the thing and it would shimmer colorlessly. They touched each strange device, the door, the window in the back sitting room.

As they did this, Hermione could feel the castle noticing her. Severus shivered, and she knew he felt it too, probably even more so. After tapping a little device that look a bit like a flask suspended on a tripod over a fire, only without the fire, she was suddenly aware that they were the only people in the school, that Peeves was in the Charms corridor arguing with the Bloody Baron, that Nearly Headless Nick was in the Divinations classroom, that the Grey Lady was in the gallery by the library.

"Your wife?" Dumbledore asked when they'd finished. They'd come to stand in front of the desk, looking at the former headmaster. He looked back at them, clearly disapproving.

"Yes," Severus said plainly.

"That was a horrible mistake. What were you thinking?" Hermione couldn't decide which of them the comment was directed to. It didn't matter, though; she was annoyed.

"I love her, that's what I was thinking," Severus shot back. Hermione felt that little fire in her chest burn brighter to hear it said aloud in front of somebody else, even if it was just a portrait. And he was defending their relationship, too. It was obnoxious that he had to to this particular wizard, of all people, and a painting to boot, but it still made her feel… good. She felt good. She was happy. She liked to see how annoyed Severus was about it.

"There's a war on, boy," Dumbledore's portrait said, condescending. "What an awful time to—"

"It's the perfect time," Hermione cut in, standing a little straighter so she could glare properly.

"Don't you start, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said sharply, his eyes darting to her before he focused back on Severus. "What if somebody found out, hm? You both are in enough danger already. What would—"

"Madam Snape," Severus said. His eyes were closed and he was leaning forward on his fists against the desk.

"What?" the portrait asked, cutting itself off to blink at Severus.

"She is not Miss Granger," Severus said, opening his eyes to look up at Dumbledore. For once, his face was naked. The emotions were clearly written there, and it stirred that little fire in her chest up a bit more. "She is Hermione Snape. Madam Snape. She is my wife."

"It hardly—"

Severus held out a hand for her and she took it, and for some reason that effectively silenced Dumbledore. Hermione wrapped his hand in both of hers and brought it to her chest, wondering if he could feel that little fire he lit in her. She looked up into his face, leaning into him so that she was against his chest. He was still glaring at the portrait.

"Severus," Dumbledore spluttered, "what about our plans? What about Harry?"

"What _about_ Potter?" Severus asked, looking surprised. Hermione looked over at the portrait, too, raising an eyebrow.

"There is so much to be done…"

"It will still be done, Headmaster," Hermione said. "Now we just have something to fight for."

"There was always something to fight for," Dumbledore said, perhaps a touch sharply. Hermione just smiled, leaning her head against Severus again but still looking at the portrait.

"Something even better, then," she said.

"The best incentive in the world to see this shit through," Severus said. They were both thinking about Dumbledore's plan for Harry to die. Harry the Horcrux.

The portrait fell silent, and none of the others seemed to have anything to say, either. Severus kissed the top of her head and stepped away, rummaging through the desk for a moment before giving up on whatever he'd been looking for.

"Let's go up," he said.

Hermione followed him up the stone stairs to the private rooms. The first was a sitting room. It was somehow cozy despite the vaulted ceilings. There was a large fireplace, a matched set of armchairs and loveseat, a thick rug, and more bookcases. Like the back sitting room in the office, large windows dominated the outside wall, letting in a wonderful abundance of natural light and giving a brilliant view.

The bedroom was atrocious. The bed was a huge four-poster, the rugs soft, the wardrobe beautifully carved. There were two end tables carved to match the wardrobe. There was a delightful lack of portraiture. There were several tall, narrow windows and two deep window seats with cushions, all with great views. The problem was the colors. The hangings were yellow-gold, the comforter was Gryffindor red, the rugs were layers of vibrant contrasting colors. The cushions in one window seat were Irish green, the cushions in the other deep violet. The curtains were royal blue and speckled with shimmering silver stars and moons.

"Oh, God," Hermione said when she saw it. The headmaster had no taste.

"Balls," Severus said, which made Hermione laugh.

They spent a very pleasant afternoon putting things right. House elves were called, and alternative furnishing were retrieved from storage. In the end, the bed hangings were the color of cream and the comforter was a rich forest green. There were fewer rugs, and those that remained were burgundy or warm brown. The cushions in both window seats were the same cream as the hangings with a brown-gold hint to the piping. The curtains on the windows were green to match the comforter.

In the sitting room, they traded the loveseat for a proper sofa, and had the elves take away the personal knickknacks on the bookshelves—Severus had almost as many books as Dumbledore, and he would need room for them.

"I'm not going to change the office," Severus told her over supper. They were sitting in his private sitting room, having just finished negotiating a proper sofa out of the house elves. "It will remind me of our goals, I think."

"And it will drive the professors crazy," Hermione said, smiling at him. She could almost imagine the look on Minerva's face when she entered the office and found it the same except for the man behind the desk. It would hurt, probably. It would hurt Severus, too. The Death Eaters that would be at the school would expect it, though. And some of the other professors who hadn't been so close to Dumbledore for so long would have properly amusing reactions.

"Yes it will." Severus said.

\\\

They christened his new bedroom that night. Actually, they christened his new sitting room that night, and the bedroom the next morning. Dumbledore gave them a knowing, reproachful look when they descended the next morning, but they both ignored it.

"I'll see you when I see you," Hermione said, kissing him goodbye. She'd meant it to be a chaste kiss, there in front of the portraits, but he pulled her close to him and, though the kiss was indeed chaste, he held her for a long moment. A few of the portraits cleared their throats uncomfortably.

"Yes," he said, then stood up straighter and sneered (though it wasn't as effective, since she could feel the nerves radiating off him). "I have an obscene amount of paperwork to get through before the professors begin to arrive."

"I love you, Severus," she said, going up on her toes to kiss his cheek. The arrogant mask came crashing down, and he kissed her again. Not chastely.

"No," he said, pulling back, shoving his hands through his hair. "Go. I love you, too."

She smiled, shivering when he kissed her palm. She wanted him, and she wanted him badly, and she could feel his desire for her wafting off him, radiating from his thoughts.

"Go on," he said, but he was still holding her hand.

"This is so stupid," she said, stepping into him and wrapping her arms around his waist, squeezing him tight. He held her.

Finally, she looked up at him. They absolutely could not linger any longer. He leaned down and kissed her goodbye again, and she took her arms back, wrapping them around herself instead, feeling very small and empty at the thought of leaving him.

"Go on," he said.

_If you don't leave now, I'll never be able to pull myself together in time for the professors to arrive_. The thought traveled to her as clearly as if it had been her own.

She wanted to tell him to be careful, and to remember to eat, and that she'd try not to drink so much since he wasn't there to brew his clever hangover cures that remedied liver damage too.

"I _know_, Hermione," he said, and she smiled. Sometimes sharing thoughts was obnoxious and invasive, but sometimes it wasn't. His features softened again. "I love you."

She Disapparated.

She'd wanted to go to him again. She'd wanted to chain herself to his bed and refuse to be budged, and damn the war. She'd known better.

It was strange to be able to Apparate inside Hogwarts, but it was also a perk. It could be useful in the future. It had been useful, in fact; if she'd stayed…

_Compartmentalize_, she told herself. _Put it in a box and leave it for later. You have things to do._

She did. She put away that little ache from knowing she wouldn't see him for awhile, packaged it up with her worries for his wellbeing and her curiosities about headmasters' wives of the past, and boxed it all up for later.

The line of the wards was set well out from the house, so Hermione had time to think about it all while she walked up to the Burrow. There were other things to worry about, too. It was a Saturday; everybody would be home. Charlie, Fred and George weren't in residence, but chances were good that the twins would be present anyway. Fleur would be there, too. Then there was the Order; they'd be slowly gathering over the course of the afternoon. She couldn't decide if it would be worse to face them all at once when she walked in or watching the individual reaction of each newcomer.

Of all people, it was the twins Hermione came on first. They were out de-gnoming the garden, striding around and jabbing their wands at the ugly little things, sending them spinning up and away over the fence. Every once in awhile, one twin would send a gnome shooting toward the other and a scuffle would break out while the lucky gnome would dart back under the leaves.

"Did you escape the house willingly or were you banished?" she asked, leaning on the fence. The twins beamed at her after they'd finished spinning around to face her and looking surprised.

"Banished," said Fred.

"Willingly," said George at the same time. They looked at each other, smirked.

"Willingly banished," amended Fred.

"Got kicked out on purpose," said George.

"Do you advise staying out here, then? Or shall I go in and get it over with?"

"Out here," said George.

"Definitely out here," said Fred, nodding. "Mum just found out that Bill and Fleur took advantage of Charlie not arriving 'til tomorrow and shacked up together last night."

"Yeah, because I'm sure they spoiled a really novel experience," George added. "I mean—they've only been practically living together."

"So she's having a bit of a fit," said Fred.

"A bit," said George. They rolled their eyes at each other. Hermione smiled.

"And it's not like we don't all know Bill was born five months after their wedding. Basic math tells us—"

"—they'd certainly never do the deed before their wedding night. No siree."

"We're very good at math," said Fred. "We run a business."

Hermione grinned at them, feeling lighter.

She hadn't thought much about Wizarding traditions regarding sex and marriage. She'd looked up marriage ceremonies and common practices there, wondering if there were strange rituals to be observed. There were strange rituals that _could _be observed, but even the most stalwart traditionalists didn't do the dancing naked around a henge thing anymore. She didn't really have a clue about the social norms surrounding it, though. Most of her experience was from Hogwarts, where she'd learned that Lavender Brown was a bit of a tart and probably wasn't a good representative sampling of the population. In France, she hadn't been the only one of the girls in the house to have a semi-live-in boyfriend, but in Alexandria she and Roger had had to be discreet (though she'd assumed it was because they worked together more than anything else). And her relationship with Severus had been far from standard from the beginning—they were currently thoroughly embroiled in what her mother called the _infatuation stage_ as well as the _honeymoon period_, which, now that she thought about it, explained why they resorted to charms and potions to sooth chafing and strained muscles so often.

"Oooh," George said, grinning knowingly. "What's his name?"

"Yes, do tell," Fred said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Tell _all_."

"Oh, shut up," she said, standing up from the fence. Sounds of gnomes thumping down outside the garden and the chant of "_Hermione's got a boyfriend, Hermione's got a boyfriend_" followed her up to the house.

She wondered what they'd say if she told them she hadn't got a boyfriend, she had a husband.

_That's obvious_, she thought to herself, rolling her eyes._ They'd ask what his name was._

And no matter how well the twins had taken the summer's revelations about her time travel, she didn't think they'd stand for her being married to Dumbledore's murderer.

Hermione sighed. She'd decided not to think about it, but she'd circled back to it anyway.

She let herself in, glancing around and wondering who she'd meet first. There had been plenty of words at meetings over the summer, her hashing out the very basics of what Dumbledore had had her do. She'd left out most of what had been dragged up in the _Prophet_, though. Likely when everybody cooled down they'd understand that, but the initial reaction would be to be angry with her for leaving things out.

Tonks was in the kitchen. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. Tonks had actually laughed when the truth had come out following Dumbledore's death—something had been 'off' about Sam Barnes, but reconciling that with her being Hermione Granger had worked wonders.

There was an odd dynamic between them now, but it worked. When they'd met, Tonks had been the older one, the cool young Auror in the Order, the closest to Hermione's age. After all the Turning, Hermione was several years older than Tonks. Mostly they were friends now, still feeling each other out but without all the wariness that had been present when Hermione had been Sam Barnes.

"Hi," Hermione said, sliding into the chair across from her.

"Wotcher, Hermione," Tonks said cheekily. She set aside the paper, folding it carefully into quarters and setting it on the table next to her. "So… Snape's the headmaster."

"Yeah."

"Awful."

Hermione smiled. Tonks snorted a laugh.

"I wondered, you know," Tonks said. "The scars on your hand. The Muggle Fights were covered in training, see."

"I thought that might be the case," Hermione said, spreading her left hand to look at the scars again, as if she didn't have every line of them memorized. "I used to catch Kingsley looking at them all the time."

They were quiet for a moment, Tonks chewing on her bottom lip.

"Tea," Tonks finally said. "Let's have tea."

"Good idea."

Tonks got up and gathered what they needed. Hermione wished for something stronger, but that wasn't a good idea. They'd be hashing and rehashing the night's plan with the Order soon. She'd probably have a fight with Moody about the contents of the articles in the newspaper. (Any respect he'd had for her being Dumbledore's dragon had dropped by the wayside since Dumbledore's death. Every little thing she did or didn't do had become a sticking point.)

"How are—did you get your parents out?" Tonks asked once they both had a cup of tea in front of them.

"Yes," Hermione said, stirring her tea for something to do with her hands. "It was lucky," she lied. "I had dinner there the night before and decided to stay over on a whim."

"It's good you were there."

"Yeah." She sighed and set her spoon on the saucer. "I've sent them into hiding now. It should be alright."

* * *

**A/N: 20 points to Nocturnus for being the first to guess.**


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

He intended to leave the office exactly as he'd found it, but the familiarity of it made things difficult. There was even a little bowl of those damn lemon drops sitting on the blotter.

After Hermione left, it was much more difficult to be amused by it. The idea of the professors walking in and seeing it, the looks that would surely cross their faces… It wasn't funny; it hurt.

Dumbledore hadn't paused his lecture about the dangers of his marriage since Hermione had gone. As a portrait, he didn't need to stop to breathe. He called him 'boy' quite a bit, and there wasn't any trace of that trademark twinkle.

"Headmaster," Severus finally interrupted, "it is done and there is nothing you can do to change it."

Severus left the office before Dumbledore could finish spluttering indignantly and begin the lecture again. He walked the castle instead, making his usual circuit of it. As he did, he carefully set a few extra wards here and there.

This corridor would be outside Alecto Carrow's office; he wanted to know whenever there were students in that office. The same for Amycus's office. Their classrooms, too. And he added new wards to the staff lounge that would keep the professors from killing each other, and a subtle calming influence on the door frame so that anybody who walked through would have their temper dissipate a bit. That would be useful for staff meetings.

Staff meetings.

_Damn._

Severus swept back to his office, ignoring the portraits completely. There were lists he needed in the desk. They'd have to send out student letters soon, and he'd have to give Minerva the names of the first years. She would probably try to get out of it, give up her position as deputy or something just to make his life difficult, but that couldn't happen. He'd have to threaten her. Brilliant.

\\\

The staff slowly made their return to the castle. The wards told him when each professor arrived, making the walk up the long path from the gates and entering the school. A few stopped by their private rooms before they went to the staff lounge.

Minerva, Pomona and Filius arrived first, striding up the path together. He watched them from the office sitting room window. They each stood tall, shoulders squared, faces hard. They were braced for the coming school year. It made his chest ache, but he was glad to see it.

Sinistra and Vector arrived next, appearing at the gates within a few seconds of each other and walking up. Then Slughorn alone. Trelawney arrived just after Hagrid, catching the half-giant up and regaling him with some tale it was all too clear the man didn't want to hear. Poppy arrived and made her way into the castle with hunched shoulders.

Severus turned away after that. He returned to his office proper, shuffling through his papers again, rehearsing his agenda in his head. When he noted the Carrows on their way to the lounge, he left his office. It wouldn't do for the Carrows to be on their own with the rest of staff for more than a moment.

"Really," he said upon entering the room. The siblings Carrow were just inside the door, wands drawn and pointed at Minerva. The Head of Gryffindor faced them with her own wand out, looking imperiously down her nose. It reminded Severus of his time as a student; she had been the professor he most dreaded coming across in the halls after hours. "I had thought I wouldn't have to lecture about wandwork outside of classrooms until the students arrived."

He looked around the room. Everybody was tense, but Minerva and Filius were the only ones who had stood upon the Carrows' entrance.

Hooch was seated in her usual chair by the fire, arms and legs crossed, tense. Hagrid sat at one of the many tables good for marking, hands knotted together on the table, face murderous. Binns floated near a chair at the same table as Hagrid, looking bemused at the display. Poppy sat in her usual chair (if she had a usual chair; she didn't usually have time to sit in the lounge), a comfortable thing in the midst of other comfortable chairs, a good arrangement for conversation; she was slouched, defeated, staring at the floor. Vector and Sinistra shared a couch, glaring at him, posture stiff. Trelawney was in her usual place at the far end of the main table, looking unsure and slightly afraid. Slughorn sat with Pince, of all people, at the nearer end of the main table, eyes roving over him, trying to get a read on him. Pince wore a pinched expression usually reserved for students caught reading library books at the supper table. Filch stood in the corner of the room, holding his cat too tightly.

Severus looked at each person in turn, strengthening his Occlumency with each face. These weren't his friends. He was friendly with—or had been friendly with—most of them for a number of years. He'd hated Slughorn as a student, so that was no loss. But he'd had a decent relationship with Pince since he was thirteen or so. Hagrid had been a friend, and Minerva. He played chess with Filius regularly. Hooch flirted with him.

Poppy was the worst. He'd always resisted her, always tried not to need her, but even when he was a student she had been the one who had comforted him, who had soothed his injuries and tucked him into bed. She looked so utterly betrayed that it was all he could do not to walk over and take her in his arms, assure her that it was all a lie. He was still the little boy she'd told to keep his chin up.

"Wands away," he instructed, pitching his voice as he did when he was lecturing. Poppy flinched. Minerva glared, stuck out her chin, and retook her seat. Her wand was hidden in her lap beneath the table, but he knew she still had it in hand. The Carrows thought they'd won, the idiots; they tucked their wands away and sauntered into the room, seating themselves on the couch by the fire across from Hooch. "Now," he said, glaring at Flitwick. The Charms professor looked like he was going to cast a spell, but then thought better of it. He stuck his wand into the sheath in his sleeve and sat a few chairs down from Minerva, giving both of them room to move and a good view of the room.

_I'm going to die. One of them will kill me before Christmas._

"Where's Charity?" Sprout asked just as Severus opened his mouth to begin the meeting. He glared at her. The Carrows laughed quietly, jostling each other with their elbows.

"Professor Burbage is no longer with us."

There was a murmur through the room. Eyes met and sprang apart, darted to the Carrows, settled on him.

"Now," he said, looking them all over again. "I will make this brief. The new term will bring change. Changes have been made to the syllabi of all classes. While most of the changes are minimal—" He had to raise his voice to be heard over the whispers and cries of protest. "—others are more affected. Muggle Studies and Defense have both undergone radical changes, for instance.

"Luckily, the new staff members taking over these classes are already familiar with the new material." He raised a hand to indicate the Carrows. "Amycus Carrow will be our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and his sister Alecto will teach Muggle Studies." He dropped his hand to his side, tasting ashes at the pleased looks plastered on the Carrows' faces. "I expect you will all be resources for our newest additions to staff as we welcome them to the castle."

_Or, more likely, I expect you to leave them to hang and make their lives as difficult as possible in the coming months._

"Next on the agenda is student discipline." The focus on him intensified. He fortified his mental shields. "You will refer students to the Carrows for discipline. They are well-versed in disciplinary techniques, and I believe their knowledge will well be able to keep the students in line during this time of change."

"Are you suggesting," Minerva bit out between clenched teeth, "that the newest staff members, who have never taught before, are to be allowed free rein over student punishments?"

"Of course not," he sneered. "Infractions are to be referred to Amycus and Alecto, who will propose a method of discipline which I must approve before they are carried out."

The Carrows would have protested if they had brains in their heads, but instead they sat there looking pleased while the rest of the staff spluttered. Poppy was giving him a shrewd look, but a moment's eye contact had her staring at her lap again.

He had far from rendered the Carrows impotent in the way of harsh punishments. It would still happen. It was inevitable, at this point. Hopefully Hogwarts wouldn't see the use of the Cruciatus Curse on a student before Halloween, though. That was a worthy goal.

He had also just created a painful amount of paperwork for himself. He could see it in their faces. The professors were planning to bury him with minor infractions, refer the smallest things to the Carrows. _Good. It could be so much worse._ He desperately wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose to relieve the headache building behind his eyes, but he couldn't do it in front of the staff.

It didn't get better in the next hour. He passed out schedules for rounds—he'd been careful that the Carrows were never on rounds together, though they'd probably accompany each other anyway—and explained his requirements for office hours. He gave Minerva the student lists and, when she threatened to quit as he'd expected, reminded her that her position could be filled just as easily as the Defense and Muggle Studies posts had been—with Death Eaters as teachers being the implication. She had gotten it, and taken the lists.

It was an interminable meeting. The professors who had once been his friends didn't seem to know how to feel about any of it. They were unhappy, obviously, but they were here to protect the children from him and they planned to do what they could. He suspected there had been several meetings without him since the end of term. That was a good thing.

Pomona and Sinistra spent a lot of the meeting looking like they might cry. Minerva was stony-faced, her fingers clenched around her wand under the table. Filius had his hands on the table in front of him, and glared through the meeting, not even flinching when Severus made a jibe about expecting everybody to keep up with the requirements of a castle full of dunderheads directed not only at his non-dunderheaded Ravenclaws but how easy it had been to Stun him the night he'd killed Dumbledore.

Finally, finally, it was done.

"If there are no further questions—" He let the not-question hang for a moment, but nobody spoke. "Then this meeting is over. Do not forget your new syllabi."

He turned and left, realizing as he did that he'd never entered the room properly. He'd held the whole meeting standing in the doorway.

\\\

Severus forced himself to eat a sandwich for dinner. The elves had provided a full spread, of course, but he hadn't had any appetite for it. The fragrant steam rising from the soup turned his stomach. The tidy cubes of fruit in the dish were oversweet.

He left the tray on the edge of the desk when his Mark burned, almost gratefully Summoning his robes. He leaned back against the edge of his desk and waited, then. The Carrows would be coming to him for Side-Along Apparition out of the castle.

_I should just leave them here. Or maybe I could splinch them. That would be fun._

At last, the siblings arrived. He glared at them and told them off for wearing their robes through the school, reminding them that, until the Ministry fell, they had to play a part. The "professors" didn't look chastened in the least.

They met at Malfoy Manor only briefly. The Dark Lord spoke, somehow threatening them and riling them up for the attack all at once. By the end of his short speech, the Death Eaters were chomping at the bit for some action—kill the Order, kill the Aurors, bring the Potter boy to their master.

They took to the skies, flying above the clouds. Then they waited. They waited for a very long time.

Severus had just cast his fifth Warming Charm on his cloak when Sirius Black's sodding motorbike flew through the clouds directly under him. He wheeled away on his broomstick, flying a large arc around the thing as the curses began to fly.

Severus watched the motorbike long enough to see that Hagrid was the one flying it and that Harry Potter was sitting in the sidecar with an owl cage between his knees, then turned away. There were other Order members paired with Harry Potters all around. A particularly sick-looking Harry shared a broom with a roaring Moody. Bill Weasley and a Harry on a thestral were spiraling lower, the thestral's neck stretched forward, its wings beating the air in great heaves. Arthur, Remus and Tonks all had Harrys on broomsticks. Kingsley was on a thestral with another Harry.

_Good God, one of those Harrys is Hermione._ The realization hit him like a brick, and he suddenly wanted to attack every last Death Eater who even came close to landing a curse on one of the Harrys. It was insane. He'd known they'd be in danger, that they might even face each other in a battle like this… but it was too real. She was in the sky with him, and she might die. He might kill her. He might cast a spell, miss a Death Eater, and she would fall to her death.

He felt sick.

_Maybe she's not here_, he thought. _Maybe she's at a safe house somewhere waiting for them to bring her the wounded. That would make sense. She's the Order's only proper Healer, after all._

He didn't believe it, though. Not for a moment.

He didn't have time to think anymore after that. The Order scattered, and he picked a pair at random—Remus Lupin and a Harry on a broomstick. If the Dark Lord looked, though he probably wouldn't, he could pass off the choice as based mostly on the childhood vendetta against the Marauders.

Carefully, Severus cut down the others chasing Lupin and Potter. He wasn't sure who they were since everybody was cloaked and masked, but it didn't matter. He used _Sectumsempra_, cutting them from the sky.

Then he missed, and he almost fell off his broom.

The Potter on the broom—_OhgodOhgodOhgod_—screamed. Blood splattered across his face, splashed back on Lupin. Potter slumped forward, almost fell off. Lupin searched the sky, spotted him, but then had to put his wand away to grab Potter with one arm. The boy had a hand pressed to the side of his head, eyes wide with panic.

_Hermione! Please, oh please. God. Holy mother of shit don't let it be Hermione_.

And then he felt guilty because even if it wasn't Hermione it was still somebody who he should consider a friend that he'd just hurt. Possibly killed.

But Hermione mattered so much more than the rest of them.

Severus sped away as soon as he was sure that the Potter wasn't going to fall off the broom and die. He was vaguely aware that his mask and hood had been lost in the fight, probably early on when he'd swerved to avoid the stupid motorbike.

He was relieved when he saw the fire.

Four Death Eaters were bearing down on the thestral carrying Shacklebolt and a different Potter. Shacklebolt was focused on driving the beast toward their goal, and Potter was covering their retreat. With Fiendfyre.

_Hermione. Thank the stars. Holy fuck._

Severus swerved away in time to see the Fiendfyre flicker into the shape of a dragon, growing larger with each second. It opened its fiery jaws and swallowed a Death Eater, surging toward the next. The coward—smart coward—Disapparated midair. The third jerked his broom into a dive, screaming when the fire caught his back anyway. The last swerved away as well, shooting off spells in the general direction of the thestral, all of which flew wide.

The dragon flapped its wings and dissipated into a dark cloud. The thestral surged off into the night, and Severus turned his broom again. Panic flooded him when he saw fire flare in the distance, huge and bright. More Fiendfyre.

_Oh, gods._


	31. Chapter Thirty

The thestral tipped them off its back the moment they landed, then took off again. She couldn't blame it.

"Alright?" Kingsley asked, rolling off her and holding out a hand. She took it, noting that it was her own hand again.

"I think so. You?" Harry's clothes were too big; she felt like she was swimming in them. She Shrunk them so that they wouldn't be falling off her, then Vanished the glasses, which had been making her vision blurry.

"Fine." He nodded sharply. "Portkey's in the kitchen."

Hermione flicked her wand at her shoes as she walked, shrinking them down to fit her feet, then rolling the cuffs up on the jeans so that she didn't trip over them when she walked.

Their Portkey was a bent-up old coat hanger, and they only had a few seconds to wait before it whisked them away to the Burrow. They'd almost been late. Things hadn't gone to plan.

The moment they landed, Kingsley had his wand at Lupin's throat. "The last words Albus Dumbledore spoke to the pair of us?"

"'Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him,'" said Lupin calmly. Kingsley lowered his wand. Hermione put hers in her back pocket, missing her wand sheath, and pulled Harry into a hug when she saw him. He was shaking.

"It's him, I've checked!" Lupin said quickly to Kingsley, who finally put away his own wand.

"All right, all right," Kingsley said, finally stowing his wand. "But somebody betrayed us! They knew, they knew it was tonight!"

"So it seems," replied Lupin, "but apparently they did not realize that there would be seven Harrys."

"Small comfort!" snarled Kinglsey. "Who else is back?"

"Only Harry, Hagrid, George and me."

Hermione stifled a moan behind her hand. The whole thing made her feel queasy. And she knew for a fact that Severus had been out there. Would one of her friends have spotted him? If they did, they would have attacked without a doubt. Was he hurt? Would he be alright? Did he need her help?

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

"Harry behaved too kindly to Stan Shunpike," Lupin was saying when Hermione brought her focus back to the conversation.

"Stan? But I thought he was in Azkaban?"

Kingsley laughed mirthlessly. "Hermione, there's obviously been a mass breakout which the Ministry has hushed up. Travers's hood fell off when I cursed him; he's supposed to be inside too. But what happened to you, Remus? Where's George?"

"He lost an ear."

"Lost an—" Hermione repeated, suddenly furious. Why the _hell _hadn't they mentioned that there were injured the moment she'd arrived?

"Snape's work," Lupin said, bitter.

"_Snape_?" shouted Harry, which was good because nobody heard Hermione whimper. "You didn't say—"

"He lost his hood during the chase. _Sectumsempra_ was always a specialty of Snape's. I wish I could say I'd paid him back in kind, but it was all I could do to keep George on the broom after he was injured, he was losing so much blood."

Hermione headed for the house. With _Sectumsempra_ the loss of the ear would be permanent, but she knew the countercurse. She could stop the bleeding, close it up.

They were in the living room with George laid out on the couch. Hermione pulled out her wand and knelt at his side, beginning to chant. She'd never done it before, but she'd seen Severus's memories of it, of developing it, of using it (most recently on Draco Malfoy).

His color was immediately better, the red streaks of inflammation settling into an overall sort of puffy redness, which quickly dissipated into a tender pinkness. The hole where the ear had attached to his head looked raw, but it didn't look like a gaping wound anymore, and it wasn't bleeding. She cleared away the blood, removing it from his hair and robes as well as the couch beneath him.

"Anybody else hurt?" she asked sharply, but didn't get an answer because there was a crash in the kitchen.

"I'll prove who I am, Kingsley, after I've seen my son; now back off if you know what's good for you!"

Mr. Weasley burst in to the room a moment later, his bald patch gleaming with sweat, spectacles askew. Fred was with him. They were both pale but didn't appear to be injured. Hermione turned to the twin she had on the couch and cast a diagnostic on him, checking for other injuries. There were none.

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley cried. "Oh, thank goodness!"

"How is he?"

Hermione backed off so Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could be closer to their son. Fred was frozen near the sofa, pale and obviously at a complete loss. He was staring at his twin's wound, disbelieving.

"He's going to be fine," Hermione whispered to Fred, but she wasn't sure he heard her.

George stirred.

"How do you feel, Georgie?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

George's fingers probed his head, poking at the bandage. Hermione wanted to tell him off, but held her tongue. He couldn't damage it. He could make it hurt, but that would be his own fault.

And she knew a bit about needing to feel an injury, to touch it even if it hurt. To confirm it was real.

"Saintlike," George finally said.

"What's wrong with him?" Fred croaked, looking terrified. "Is his mind affected?"

"Saintlike," repeated George, finally opening his eyes. Unerringly, the eyes found his twin. "You see… I'm holy. _Holey_, Fred, geddit?"

Mrs. Weasley sat back, sobbing even harder. Fred flushed with color.

"Pathetic," Fred told George. "Pathetic! With the whole wide world of ear-related humor before you, you go for _holey_?"

"Ah well," said George, now grinning. He looked at his mother. "You'll be able to tell us apart now, anyway, Mum." He looked around. "Hi Harry—you are Harry, right?"

"Yeah, I am," said Harry.

"Well, at least we got you back okay," said George. "Why aren't Ron and Bill huddled round my sickbed?"

"They're not back yet, George," Mrs. Weasley said. George's grin faded.

Hermione left the room, thinking of Severus. She wondered how he was doing. She wondered if it would be possible to get to the castle to see him, to assure herself that he was alright, but she knew it couldn't happen.

Without really thinking about it, she joined Lupin and Kingsley in the yard watching the sky.

"George is awake," she told the werewolf. "I closed it up. He's making ear jokes."

Remus didn't quite smile.

Hermione watched Kingsley pace, looking up at the sky every now and then. She had Lupin on one side of her, Hagrid on the other. She noted that she was shaking.

Harry and Ginny joined them after a few more minutes, silently taking up the watch as well. Every little sound made them all twitch and look for the source.

Then a broom appeared directly above the house and streaked down.

"It's them!" Hermione shouted.

Ron and Tonks tumbled off, Tonks flying into Remus's arms. Hermione darted forward and grabbed Ron. Harry was right next to her, wrapping his arms around the both of them. She found herself almost teary, thinking of trolls in the girls' bathroom as she looked over Ron's shoulder and saw Remus's pasty white face, his eyes scrunched tight shut as he held his wife.

"'M all right," Ron said, pulling back from them and patting Hermione on the back. "'M fine."

"Ron was great," Tonks said, relinquishing her hold on Lupin, but not entirely. She had an iron grip on his hand, Hermione noted. She missed Severus. "Wonderful. Stunned one of the Death Eaters, straight to the head, and when you're aiming at a moving target from a flying broom—"

"You did?" asked Hermione, glancing up at him.

"Always the tone of surprise," he said, smirking. Once, he probably would have been grumpy about it. About her underestimating him. Now, she was just glad he'd let her hug him, had forgotten that he was still mad at her because she'd only told him half her secrets. "Are we the last back?"

"No," said Ginny, "we're still waiting for Bill and Fleur, and Mad-Eye and Mundungus. I'm going to tell Mum and Dad you're okay, Ron—" And she ran back inside.

"So what kept you? What happened?" Lupin asked, almost sounding angry with Tonks.

"Bellatrix," Tonks said darkly. "She wants me quite as much as she wants Harry, Remus. She tried very hard to kill me. I just wish I'd got her. I owe Bellatrix. But we definitely injured Rodolphus… Then we got to Ron's Auntie Muriel's and we'd missed our Portkey and she was fussing over us—"

Remus didn't look particularly satisfied by the answer—possibly he looked even angrier than he had before she'd explained—but he didn't say anything.

"So what happened to you lot?"

They talked for a few minutes, recounting their own journeys. Hermione kept looking toward the sky, though.

"I'm going to have to get back to Downing Street, I should have been there an hour ago," Kingsley said. "Let me know when they're back."

Lupin nodded. Hermione seriously considered giving him a hug, but decided against it. Kingsley walked off toward the gate and Disapparated.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley came out with Ginny then, and hugged Ron.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Weasley, "for our sons."

"Don't be silly, Molly," said Tonks.

"How's George?" asked Lupin.

"What's wrong with him?" Ron asked.

"He's lost—"

But then they'd spotted the thestral. It soared down and landed a few feet away. Bill and Fleur slid down, windswept but unhurt.

"Bill!" Mrs. Weasley cried, running forward. "Thank God, thank God—"

Bill barely hugged his mother back. He looked at his father and said, "Mad-Eye's dead."

For a moment, nobody spoke. Hermione swallowed, thinking of the mad old Auror. He'd spent the whole afternoon glaring at her, stumping around and looking at her like she'd stood on his puppy. He hadn't said anything, she couldn't be sure what he was mad at her about this time, but he'd made it clear that he didn't like her and didn't particularly want to trust her.

"We saw it," Bill continued. "It happened just after we broke out of the circle: Mad-Eye and Dung were close by us, they were heading north too. Voldemort—he can fly—went straight for them. Dung panicked, I heard him cry out, Mad-Eye tried to stop him, but he Disapparated. Voldemort's curse hit Mad-Eye full in the face, he fell backward off his broom and—there was nothing we could do, nothing, we had half a dozen of them on our own tail—"

Bill's voice broke.

"Of course you couldn't have done anything," Lupin said.

They stood in silence for a long time, then they went inside.

They drank to Mad-Eye. They wondered if Mundungus had betrayed them and decided he probably hadn't. Harry tried to leave and then he was sucked into Voldemort's mind.

Hermione had never been with him when it happened before, and definitely not since she'd learned Legilimency. She had to sit down. She could catch snippets of what Harry saw. The emotions radiating off of him were too intense—his own pain and fear tangling with Voldemort's anger.

_"__You told me the problem with the wand would be solved by using another wand!"_

But he had it wrong; he didn't know Harry was a Horcrux.

Without thinking about it, Hermione reached out with her mind and yanked him back into his own head. He sat down hard. Lupin and Bill looked at her oddly—they'd sensed something—but didn't say anything.

"Harry?" Hermione moved across the room and took his hand, noting that Ron was already at his side. "You aren't still thinking of leaving?"

"Yeah, you've got to stay, mate," Ron said, thumping Harry on the back.

"Are you all right?" Hermione asked, looking into his face. She wondered if he knew what she'd done. He didn't seem to. "You look awful," she told him, because he did.

"Well," Harry said shakily. "I probably look better than Ollivander."

Harry told them what he'd seen. He left out what he'd felt, but Hermione knew better.

"Harry, this was supposed to have stopped. Your scar—it wasn't supposed to do this anymore." She was more frustrated with Dumbledore than with Harry. It was out of Harry's control, but Dumbledore had always made it sound as though he'd interceded somehow, blocked the connection after the events at the Ministry. "You mustn't let that connection open up again." She gripped his arms when he didn't say anything. "Harry, he's taking over the Ministry and the newspapers and half the Wizarding world. Don't let him inside your head, too!"

\\\

The next few days were awful. Everybody was in mourning, but there wasn't a body to have a proper funeral. Harry was withdrawn, but she suspected it was more to do with Moody than it was to do with his scar and her little outburst.

Hermione spent most of her time avoiding Mrs. Weasley, who constantly pestered her for information on Harry's "little mission from Dumbledore." Ron had explained that Dumbledore had wanted it to be a secret between the three of them, and while that had made Lupin and Mr. Weasley back off, Mrs. Weasley wasn't letting it go. She constantly appealed to Hermione's sense of responsibility, pointing out how young the boys were.

Mrs. Weasley changed tactics shortly after she cornered Harry in the scullery. Instead of pestering them for information and trying to change their minds, she set them to work helping prepare for the wedding. Hermione supposed she was trying to keep them busy enough that they wouldn't have time to do anything else. And it didn't take a genius to notice that all the chores they were set kept her, Ron and Harry carefully apart.

Hermione had been ready since she arrived at the Burrow, however. Her satchel was always with her and always packed. She'd commandeered portions of Harry and Ron's laundry over the course of the week, and had added a few of their things so they'd be more comfortable. She'd even discreetly talked Mr. Weasley into lending her the tent from the Quidditch World Cup as a back-up plan.

She finally managed a few minutes with Ron when Mrs. Weasley asked her and Ginny to change the sheets again. Instead of reminding her they'd done it the day before, Hermione slipped off to Ron's attic room to sort through his and Harry's books, wondering how likely it was that she could convince them to do some reading while they were searching for Horcruxes, or even allow her to tutor them through their seventh year as she had been.

_Fat chance._

"I'm doing it, I'm doing—! Oh, it's you," said Ron, startling her. She glanced up and smiled, seeing that Harry had snuck away too.

"Hi, Harry," she said as he sat down.

"And how did you manage to get away?"

"Oh, Ron's mum forgot that she asked Ginny and me to change the sheets yesterday." She tossed an old Divinations textbook onto the Pitch pile and put a Defense text on top of the other one.

"We were just talking about Mad-Eye," Ron said. "I reckon he might have survived."

"But Bill saw him hit by the Killing Curse," Harry said.

"Yeah, but Bill was under attack, too," said Ron. "How can he be sure what he saw?"

_Sweet, naïve Ron._

"Even if the Killing Curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell about a thousand feet," Hermione pointed out. _Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland_ was the next book to hand. The boys would probably rather read it than the other books, but…

"He could have used a Shield Charm—"

"Fleur said his wand was blasted out of his hand."

"Well, all right, if you want him to be dead," Ron said petulantly. He punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape.

"Of course we don't want him to be dead," Hermione said, finally annoyed with the petulance. "It's dreadful that he's dead. But we're being realistic."

"The Death Eaters probably tidied up after themselves, that's why no one's found him," Ron said.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Like Barty Crouch, turned into a bone and buried in Hagrid's front garden. They probably transfigured Moody and stuffed him—"

"Don't," Hermione said, her guts twisting, thinking of her own means of covering her tracks—Fiendfyre—and the regularity with which she'd used it. She found herself in tears again.

_Always bloody crying_.

"Oh no," Harry said, starting to get up. "Hermione, I wasn't trying to upset—"

Ron got to her first, cleaning an absolutely filthy handkerchief and handing it to her, putting an arm around her shoulders.

"Oh… thanks, Ron… I'm sorry…" She blew her nose. "It's just so awf-ful, isn't it? R-right after Dumbledore… I j-just never imagined Mad-Eye dying, somehow, he seemed so tough."

It had been plaguing her since he'd died, how she'd spent the last day of his life avoiding him while he glared. They hadn't been friends, but they'd almost trusted each other once. And, honestly, she'd really been looking forward to his reaction at the end of it, when Severus was vindicated.

"Yeah, I know," Ron said, squeezing her with the arm across her shoulders. "But you know what he'd say to us if he was here?"

_He'd probably think I was the one to tell the Death Eaters which day we were extracting Harry_, she thought, but didn't say it. Instead, she said, "Constant vigilance," because that's what Harry and Ron would remember best about the blasted old Auror.

"That's right," Ron said, nodding at her like she was a toddler who had just figured out how to put the triangle-shaped block through the triangle-shaped hole. "He'd tell us to learn from what happened to him. And what I've learned is not to trust that cowardly little squit, Mundungus."

Hermione laughed and pulled away, reaching for the next book on the stack. She was painfully aware that Ron liked the idea of forgetting she was more than ten years older than him these days. Since the funeral, he'd gone back and forth with being annoyed with her and not knowing what to say to her, and trying to be close to her.

Thinking about what Severus would say about that little display, Ron's arm around her shoulders while she cried, made her laugh. Or she would've laughed if she hadn't dropped _The Monster Book of Monsters_ on his foot instead.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she said as it attacked his leg. Harry jumped down and retied the belt around it.

"What are you doing with all those books anyway?" Ron asked, limping back to his bed.

"Just trying to decide which ones to take with us," Hermione said. "When we're looking for the Horcruxes."

"Oh, of course," said Ron, slapping a hand to his forehead. "I forgot we'll be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library."

"Ha ha," she said, looking down at _Spellman's Syllabary_. She'd mostly memorized the common rune alphabets, but sometimes it helped to have a reference on hand (even if it was a fairly rudimentary reference). "I wonder… will we need to translate runes? It's possible… I think we'd better take it, to be safe."

Next on the pile was _Hogwarts: A History_. They wouldn't need it, but it would feel strange not to have it with her. She'd even had it with her in Alexandria, tucked in some forgotten pocket of her satchel.

"Listen," said Harry, and she shared a look with Ron at the tone. "I know you said after Dumbledore's funeral that you wanted to come with me…"

"Here he goes," Ron said, rolling his eyes.

"As we knew he would," she sighed. She and Ron had talked about it before getting on the train. Harry couldn't do it alone, but he would try to because Dumbledore had spent the past six years telling him that it had to be him, rewarding him for going off of hair-brained missions to save the school. "You know, I think I _will _take _Hogwarts: A History_. Even if we're not going back there, I don't think I'd feel right if I didn't have it with—"

"Listen!"

"No, Harry, _you _listen," Hermione said. "We're coming with you. That was decided months ago—years, really."

"But—"

"Shut up," Ron advised.

"—are you sure you've thought this through?"

Hermione laughed. She laughed long and hard, with just enough bitter edge to keep either of the boys from interrupting her. Or moving.

"Harry," she said when she had herself under control, and her tone was both sharp and weary. "I'll be turning thirty on my next birthday, did you know that? _That's_ how much I've thought this through.

"Dumbledore sent me back again and again, training me, pointing me in the direction of knowledge he thought you might need to have on hand. I'm a Healer; if we get in a tight spot, I can fix you up after. I'm also a Legilimens, which is just damn useful, really. I have papers for half a dozen Muggle aliases, all of which have safe houses attached to them. Had you thought about where you'll be staying while looking for Horcruxes? I didn't think so. I'm also ridiculously proficient with Fiendfyre, which is one of the only things capable of destroying a Horcrux."

She slammed _Travels With Trolls_ onto the Pitch pile and glared at Harry. He was still frozen in place on his camp bed, staring at her like he hadn't seen her before in his life.

"I've also been packing for _days_, so we're ready to leave at a moment's notice."

"She smuggled Mad-Eye's whole stock of Polyjuice right out from under Mum's nose," Ron said, looking proud of her. She almost rolled her eyes. Almost.

"I—Hermione, I'm sorry—I didn't—"

"Didn't realize that Ron and I know perfectly well what might happen if we come with you? Well, we do. Ron, show Harry what you've done."

"Nah, he's just eaten."

"Go on, he needs to know."

"Oh, all right. Harry, come here."

They left so Ron could show Harry the ghoul. Hermione mopped up her face, annoyed with the tears again. _I never used to cry this much._ They returned a few minutes later, bringing the stink of the ghoul with them. It turned her stomach.

"Once we've left, the ghoul's going to come and live down here in my room," Ron was explaining. "I think he'd really looking forward to it—well, it's hard to tell, because all he can do is moan and drool—but he nods a lot when you mention it. Anyway, he's going to be me with spattergroit, get it?"

Harry nodded, but it was clear that he didn't get it.

"It is!" Ron said, annoyed Harry hadn't grasped the brilliance of it. "Look, when we three don't turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone's going to think Hermione and I must be with you, right? Which means the Death Eaters will go straight for our families to see if they've got information on where you are."

"But I'm a wanted fugitive already for offing the Death Eaters—I mean Ministry officials—who went after my parents," Hermione said. The boys looked uncomfortable, but Ron pressed on.

"We can't hide my whole family, it'll look too fishy and they can't all leave their jobs," said Ron. "So we're going to put out the story that I'm seriously ill with spattergroit, which is why I can't go back to school. If anyone comes calling to investigate, Mum or Dad can show them the ghoul in my bed, covered in pustules. Spattergroit's really contagious, so they're not going to want to go near him. It won't matter that he can't say anything, either, because apparently you can't once the fungus has spread to your uvula."

Hermione was impressed that he'd actually read the blurb on it in the book she'd shown him.

"And your mum and dad are in on this plan?" asked Harry.

"Dad is. He helped Fred and George transform the ghoul. Mum… well, you've seen what she's like. She won't accept we're going till we're gone."

They were quiet. Hermione continued sorting books. Mrs. Weasley was shouting at Ginny downstairs.

"Ginny's probably left a speck of dust on a poxy napkin ring," Ron said. "I dunno why the Delacours have got to come two days before the wedding."

"Fleur's sisters a bridesmaid, she needs to be here for the rehearsal, and she's too young to come on her own," Hermione reminded him, flipping through _Break with a Banshee_.

"Well, guests aren't going to help Mum's stress levels."

"What we really need to decide," Hermione said, tossing Ron's copy of _Defensive Magical Theory _into the bin (bypassing the Pitch pile, even) and picking up _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe_, "is where we're going after we leave here. I know you said you wanted to go to Godric's Hollow first, Harry, and I understand why, but… we… shouldn't we make the Horcruxes our priority?"

_Also, the Death Eaters will be watching Godric's Hollow. It would be slightly suicidal to try to visit for the sake of visiting._

"If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were, I'd agree with you," said Harry, frowning.

"Don't you think there's a possibility that Voldemort's keeping a watch on Godric's Hollow? He might expect you to go back and visit your parents' graves once you're free to go wherever you like."

Harry opened his mouth then closed it when he didn't have an immediate rebuttal.

"This R.A.B. person," Ron said, evidently following his own train of thought. "You know, the one who stole the real locket?"

Hermione nodded.

"He said in his note he was going to destroy it, didn't he?"

Harry pulled out his rucksack and pulled the locket out of the outside pocket.

"_I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can_," Harry read out.

"Well, what if he _did _finish it off?"

"Or she," Hermione said, mostly because she knew it would annoy Ron. She was trying to be occasionally petulant, especially with Ron. It helped them feel at ease with her.

"Whichever," said Ron. "It'd be one less for us to do!"

"Yes, but we're still going to have to try and trace the real locket, aren't we?" Hermione pointed out. "To find out whether or not it's destroyed."

"And once we get hold of it, how _do _you destroy a Horcrux?"

"There are only a few really foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux," Hermione said.

"What, like stabbing it with a basilisk fang?" Harry said.

"Oh, well, lucky we've got such a large supply of basilisk fangs, then," said Ron. "I was wondering what we were going to do with them."

"It doesn't have to be a basilisk fang," Hermione said patiently. "It has to be something so destructive that the Horcrux can't repair itself. Basilisk venom only has one antidote, and that's incredibly rare—"

"—phoenix tears," Harry said, nodding.

"Exactly," said Hermione. "And there are few other substances as destructive as basilisk venom, and they're all dangerous to carry around with you."

"But even if we wreck the thing it lives in, why can't the bit of soul in it just go and live in something else?" Ron asked, and Hermione forced herself not to smile because she knew it would be a patronizing sort of smile.

"Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being." The boys both looked thoroughly confused. "Look, if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn't damage your soul at all."

"Which would be a real comfort to me, I'm sure," Ron said, and Harry laughed.

"It should be, actually. But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive, untouched. But it's the other way round with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it depends on its container, its enchanted body, for survival. It can't exist without it."

"The diary sort of died when I stabbed it," Harry said, his eyes distant with memory. Hermione wanted to have a look, to pry, but she restrained herself.

"And once the diary was properly destroyed, the bit of soul trapped in it could no longer exist. Ginny tried to get rid of the diary before you did, flushing it away, but obviously it came back good as new."

"Hang on," said Ron, frowning. "The bit of soul in that diary was possessing Ginny, wasn't it? How does that work, then?"

"While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside it can flit in and out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don't mean holding it for too long, it's nothing to do with touching it. I mean close emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself incredibly vulnerable. You're in trouble if you get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux." Which raised a whole slew of questions about Harry the Horcrux's continued visions that she simply didn't want to think about right now.

"I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring," said Harry. "Why didn't I ask him? I never really…"

Hermione was about to tell him that the headmaster hadn't destroyed it, he'd tried to wear it—_Idiot_—when the door flew open with a wall-shaking crash. Hermione was on her feet in an instant, wand out and pointed at the intruder, blocking their view of the room.

There was a tense moment of silence. It was only Mrs. Weasley, come to split them up, her face frozen in shock to see Hermione standing so close. Hermione didn't apologize, she just put her wand back in its sheath and sat down by the books again.

"I'm so sorry to break up this… cozy little gathering," Mrs. Weasley said, her voice trembling. "I'm sure you all need your rest... but there are wedding presents stacked in my room that need sorting out and I was under the impression that you had agreed to help."

"Oh, yes," said Hermione, ordering herself not to laugh. It wouldn't be polite. "We will."

\\\

The next day, Hermione woke to find herself so overwhelmed with nausea that she stumbled for the bathroom in the long, sleeveless night dress she'd adopted for her time at the Burrow—it covered the worst of her scars but breathed (it was Egyptian cotton, after all), not to mention how soft and comfortable it was.

She crouched over the commode for a few minutes, but the nausea just simmered uncomfortably in her guts. She brushed her teeth while she was in the bathroom, letting the minty toothpaste sooth her.

_A stomach bug, just what I need_, Hermione grouched, returning to the room she shared with Ginny and dressing quickly. She'd slept late, so she had the room to herself. She opted for her nice forest green dress—three-quarters sleeves, boat neck, flowy knee-length skirt—for the occasion of the Delacours's arrival, but didn't have it in her to do more than yank her hair half up (and to be honest that was more because it would stay out of her way in the event that she ended up vomiting at some point).

_Mrs. Weasley is bound to have something for nausea. If not, I will brew it myself. _She smirked to herself as she walked down to the kitchen, thinking on how spoiled she'd been living with a Potions Master, always with so many potions on hand.

"What's going on?" she asked Ron when she passed him on the stairs. He looked grouchier than he usually was so early in the day.

"Mum's making me change my socks," he muttered, not stopping. Hermione smirked.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley was pestering Harry about his messy hair. Try as he might, it wouldn't lay flat.

Hermione ate a piece of dry toast, hoping it would settle her stomach. She was still finishing it off when they all went out to the backyard to await the Delacours.

It was a beautiful sunny morning, and the Burrow had never been so clean. The usual household detritus by the back steps was gone, replaced by Flutterby bushes in large pots on either side of the door. The chickens were nowhere to be seen. The yard had been swept and the garden had been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced up; she didn't see a single gnome.

Hermione had just closed her eyes and turned her face into the sun when Fleur cried, "Maman! Papa!"

Her mother was astoundingly beautiful, as expected. She wore leaf-green robes and was blonde like her daughter. Monsieur Delacour was a head shorter than his wife and a bit fat, and he wore a pointed little beard. They looked very happy together, though. The wife glowed (though it might have been in her nature to glow), and the husband had that good-natured look about him. He wore high-heeled boots, she noted with amusement.

Introductions were made, and the males were suitably flustered by the presence of the part-Veelas. Mrs. Weasley was exceedingly polite, and the Delacours were sure to compliment everything they came across. That fell by the wayside soon enough—the Delacours were helpful, pleasant sorts, and they really were pleased with everything and willing to assist in the last of the preparations. There was a bit of shouting when it came to the master suite—Mr. and Mrs. Weasley insisted on giving their room up for their guests—but other than that things went well.

Hermione amused herself for awhile before lunchtime eavesdropping on the Delacour sisters, who were catching up in rapid French while they helped out. Little Gabrielle had a crush on a boy from their neighborhood and went on and on about him.

After lunch, Hermione retreated to Ginny's room for a nap. The nausea had dissipated after the toast, but lunch had come with heartburn—Ron had teased her about her aging gastrointestinal system (though, of course, he hadn't used the term "gastrointestinal system")—and Mrs. Weasley hadn't had any of the usual remedies to hand. She'd considered brewing herself something, but she'd just been too tired to work up the will for it. She'd feel better when she woke.

\\\

The next day was Harry's birthday. She woke and was delighted to find that the nausea did not make a repeat performance. She got down to breakfast just in time to watch Harry open his presents.

There was a bit of teenaged drama in the morning—and she only felt slightly bad about not dragging Ron away when he'd realized what his sister was up to—followed by a delightfully diverting episode in which Mrs. Weasley cut Charlie's hair for the wedding.

It was a nice night and the kitchen wasn't nearly big enough, so tables were set up outside for Harry's birthday dinner. She spent half an hour out with Fred and George—the twins bewitched purple lanterns emblazoned with the number 17 to hang in the air over the table, and she decorated the trees and bushes with purple and gold streamers. They got into a bit of a competition, which she decided she won after she turned the leaves on the crabapple tree gold, though her win was by default because Fred and George were prevented retaliation by the arrival of their mother and the cake.

Fred and George were dispatched to retrieve the guests. Hagrid wore his hairy brown suit. Lupin and Tonks were a study of differences—Tonks radiant and beaming, Lupin putting a good face on but looking rather unhappy. Hermione wondered if they'd had a row.

She was sitting, quietly chatting with Tonks and trying not to miss Severus, when the Patronus arrived.

"Minister coming with me."

A moment later, Mr. Weasley appeared at the gate with a wizard with a mane of grizzled hair. Hermione turned away, walking without urgency back to the house. Behind her, she heard Tonks calling to Hagrid about something and striking up a conversation that was slightly too loud. Hermione sent the other woman silent thanks and Disillusioned herself, then did one better by knicking Harry's Invisibility Cloak from his room and pulling that over her head as well.

_Ah, the exciting life of a fugitive._

When Harry and Ron entered the house not five minutes later with a peeved-looking Minister Scrimgeor, Hermione followed them to the sitting room. Scrimgeor took the armchair, so Harry and Ron sat on the sofa.

"I have some questions for you. I am here, as you know, because of Albus Dumbledore's will."

Harry and Ron glanced at each other, making it clear that they _did not _know about Dumbledore's will.

"A surprise, apparently. You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you anything?"

"B-both of us?" Ron asked. "Me too?"

"Yes. Hermione Granger, too, but due to her status as a fugitive… well."

"Dumbledore died over a month ago," Harry cut in. "Why has it taken this long to give us what he left us?"

"The objects in question had to be examined, of course," Scrimgeor said, and Harry looked immediately offended. The Minister held up a finger, lecturing. "The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power to confiscate the contents of a will."

Silently, Hermione fumed. The decree he was referring to had been put in place to stop Dark objects from becoming heirlooms, not to be used as an excuse to poke through Dumbledore's things. Not to mention the fact that there was supposed to be powerful evidence that the possessions were illegal before they were seized. She counted back in her head, realizing that the thirty-one days were up; the objects hadn't been proven dangerous and therefore had to be passed along, no matter that they wanted to keep them.

_Couldn't think of another pretext, Minister?_

"Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?" Scrimgeor asked when neither Harry nor Ron had anything to say about the Decree for Justifiable Confiscation (though they both looked like they wished they had something to say about it).

"Me? Not—not really… It was always Harry…" Ron said, then snapped his mouth shut, seeming to realize the opening he'd created.

"If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast majority of his possessions—his private library, his magical instruments, and other personal effects—were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?"

"I… dunno," said Ron. "I… when I say we weren't close… I mean, I think he liked me…"

Awkward silence filled the room. Scrimgeor looked the boys over like a lion trying to decide which bit to eat first. The boys looked like they had indigestion.

Scrimgeor put his hand inside his cloak and drew out a drawstring pouch, removing a scroll of parchment. Without flourish, the Minister unrolled the parchment and read from it.

"_'__The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore'_… Yes, here we are… _'To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it_.'"

Scrimgeor withdrew what looked like a silver cigarette lighter from the bag and passed it to Ron, who took it and turned it over in his fingers, looking stunned.

"That's a valuable object," Scrimgeor said, watching Ron closely. "It may even be unique. Certainly it is of Dumbledore's own design. Why would he have left you an item so rare?"

Ron shook his head, looking bewildered.

"Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students," Scrimgeor persevered. "Yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you two—well. The three of you… To what use did he think you would put his Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?"

"Put out lights, I s'pose," Ron mumbled. "What else could I do with it?"

Hermione almost laughed. Scrimgeor squinted at Ron, obviously trying to work out if Ron was making fun of him, before turning back to the will.

"'_To Harry James Potter, I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.'_" Scrimgeor withdrew the Snitch from the bag. "Why did Dumbledore give you this Snitch?"

"No idea," said Harry. "For the reasons you just read out, I suppose… to remind me what you can get if you… persevere and whatever it was."

"You think this a mere symbolic keepsake, then?"

"I suppose so," said Harry. "What else could it be?"

"I'm asking the questions," Scrimgeor said, shifting forward in his chair a bit. "I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch. Why is that?"

"Maybe because he's a Seeker?" Ron asked, quite obviously wondering how Scrimgeor had made Minister for Magic. "Or d'you think there's a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the icing?"

"I don't think there's anything hidden in the icing," Scrimgeor said, "but a Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I'm sure?"

Hermione thought for a moment that neither of them would know—it was the sort of thing they usually relied on her for—but then Ron's Quidditch brain kicked in.

"Flesh memories."

"What?" asked Harry, eyebrows shooting up.

"Correct," Scrimgeor said. "A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first human to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch—" he held up the tiny golden ball—"will remember your touch, Potter. It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skills, whatever his other faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you."

Hermione's mind raced. Surely, if the headmaster were going to hide something for Harry, he would have done it more carefully than this. He would have known—_should _have known—the Ministry would examine his things…

"You don't say anything," Scrimgeor observed. "Perhaps you already know what the Snitch contains?"

"No," said Harry.

"Take it."

Harry glared at the Minister, but the wizard's only response was to lean forward and place the Snitch in Harry's hands. It was wonderfully anticlimactic. Harry wrapped his hand around it, and the Minister continued staring at it as if there might be a time delay.

"That was dramatic," said Harry coolly. Ron laughed.

"That's all then, is it?" Ron asked, clapping his hands together.

"Not quite," Scrimgeor said, looking bad-tempered now. "Dumbledore left you a second bequest, Potter."

"What is it?"

"The Sword of Godric Gryffindor."

Hermione frowned. Then she was insulted. Then she was sick to her stomach.

"So where is it?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"Unfortunately," said Scrimgeor, "that sword as not Dumbledore's to give away. The sword of Godric Gryffindor is an important historical artifact, and as such, belongs to no one. According to reliable historical sources, the sword may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor. That does not make it the exclusive property of somebody it presented to, whatever Dumbledore may have decided." Scrimgeor scratched his chin, and Hermione was struck by the stubble. The man was exhausted, though he was very good at hiding it. "Why do you think—?"

"—Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?" interrupted Harry. She could see him struggling to contain his temper. "Maybe he thought it would look nice on my wall."

_No, Harry_, Hermione thought. She wanted to sit down but she didn't dare move. _It's a back-up plan. Fiendfyre will destroy Horcruxes, but if I'm not there to provide the fire…_

"This is not a joke, Potter!" growled Scrimgeor. "Was it because Dumbledore believed that only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? Did he wish to give you that sword, Potter, because he believed, as do many, that you are the one destined to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Interesting theory," Harry said. "Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people on that, instead of wasting their time stripping down Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So is this what you've been doing, Minister, shut up in your office, trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying—I was nearly one of them—Voldemort chased me across three counties, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, but there's been no word about any of that from the Ministry, has there? And you still expect use to cooperate with you!"

"You go too far!" Scrimgeor shouted, standing up. Harry jumped to his feet, too, and the Minister limped toward him, jabbing him in the chest with his wand. Hermione realized that she had her wand clenched in one fist and her knife in the other.

"Oi!" Ron said, jumping up. The shift let Hermione see that Scrimgeor's wand had singed a hole in Harry's t-shirt as if he'd poked him with a lit cigarette.

"No! D'you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?" Harry asked.

"Remembered you're not at school, have you?" Scrimgeor asked, breathing hard. He was still too close to Harry. "Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence and insubordination? You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It's time you learned some respect!"

"It's time you earned it!" Harry shouted back.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley burst into the room. Hermione took a quick step back, only then realizing that she had come up behind the Minister.

"We—we thought we heard—" began Mr. Weasley, looking alarmed when he saw Harry and the Minister nose to nose.

"—raised voices," Mrs. Weasley finished for him.

Scrimgeor took a couple steps back from Harry, eyes lingering on the hole in the t-shirt (though he looked like he was considering feeling bad about losing his temper instead of actually feeling bad about it).

"It—it was nothing," Scrimgeor growled. "I… regret your attitude." He looked at Harry again. "You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you—what Dumbledore—desired. We ought to be working together."

"I don't like your methods, Minister. Remember?"

Harry raised his right fist to show the minister the white scars on the back of it. _I must not tell lies_ in his own handwriting.

Scrimgeor scowled and limped from the room. Mrs. Weasley followed him, stopping at the door then hurrying back.

"He's gone!"

"What did he want?" Mr. Weasley asked. Hermione pulled off Harry's cloak and dropped her Disillusionment, then put her knife and wand back in the sheath. The others stared at her for a quiet moment before Harry spoke.

"To give us what Dumbledore left us. They've only just released the contents of his will."

"Wonder what he would have given you, Hermione?" Ron asked.

"I've no idea," Hermione said honestly. She made a mental note to ask his portrait and tried not to feel too giddy about having a valid excuse to visit the school.

Outside in the garden, the Snitch and Deluminator were passed around. Nobody had a clue why either had been given, though the Snitch was a particular mystery.

"Harry, dear, everyone's awfully hungry, we didn't like to start without you… Shall I serve dinner now?"

\\\

The wedding was awful.

Not true. It was wonderful. It was everything a wedding should be. Fleur's father walked her down the aisle. Fleur's white dress robes were simple and as beautiful as she was. The bridesmaids wore gold. Bill looked tall and strong and young standing up in front of everybody with his brother. The mothers of the bride and groom cried. Bill and Fleur were declared bonded for life. There was dancing.

Hermione spent most of the wedding crying and trying to make it look like she was happy-crying. She missed Severus. Well, she missed Severus more than she usually did.

To take her mind off of it, Hermione mingled. Harry was disguised as Barny Weasley using Polyjuice, and she was disguised as his wife (a redheaded woman from the village, both chubbier and more classically beautiful than she was). She and Harry danced a bit, then wandered, her arm linked through his. She was quiet while he had an interesting conversation with Viktor. She almost Stunned him and dragged him off when he introduced himself to Elphias Doge.

Hermione had met Doge twice. The first time as Sam Barnes, Healer for the Order. He'd asked her awkward questions about foot fungi. The second time was shortly after she'd returned to her timeline and they'd had a very interesting conversation about Time Turners, and shared a bit of nostalgia for France in the summers. The pleasantness of the man didn't make it a good idea for Harry to introduce himself.

"My dear boy! Arthur told me you were here, disguised… I am so glad, so honored!"

Harry looked at her, about to introduce her, but she put the narrow part of her heeled shoe on his foot and pressed, shaking her head at him. As Doge didn't seem to mind ignoring her, Harry did, too.

"I thought of writing to you," Doge was saying softly. "After Dumbledore… the shock… and for you, I am sure…"

"I saw the obituary you wrote for the _Daily Prophet_," Harry said. "I didn't realize you knew Professor Dumbledore so well."

"As well as anyone," Doge said, dabbing his eyes with a napkin. "Certainly I knew him longest, if you don't count Aberforth—and somehow, people never _do _seem to count Aberforth."

"Speaking of the _Daily Prophet_… I don't know whether you saw, Mr. Doge—?"

"Oh, please call me Elphias, dear boy!"

"Elphias, I don't know whether you saw the interview with Rita Skeeter gave about Dumbledore?"

"Oh yes, Harry, I saw it. That woman, or vulture might be a more accurate term, positively pestered me to talk to her. I am ashamed to say that I became rather rude, called her an interfering trout, which resulted, as you may have seen, in aspersions cast upon my sanity." Doge was positively puce in his indignation. Hermione wondered if he'd had his blood pressure checked recently.

"Well, in that interview, Rita Skeeter hinted that Professor Dumbledore was involved in the Dark Arts when he was young."

_Of course he was. _I_ was involved in the Dark Arts when I was young. Hell, I'm still involved in the Dark Arts. _

"Don't believe a word of it!" Doge said at once. "Not a word, Harry! Let nothing tarnish your memories of Ablus Dumbledore!"

_Oh for God's sake._

"Harry, Rita Skeeter is a dreadful—"

"Rita Skeeter? Oh, I love her, always read her!"

Hermione began looking around for the man with the drinks. It had been an age and if she was going to put up with Ron's Auntie Muriel, she was going to do it with a firewhiskey in her hand.

Doge and Auntie Muriel bickered about Dumbledore for awhile. Poor Harry was caught in between them, confused as hell. He glanced at Hermione every once in awhile, but he was the one who had wanted the conversation in the first place. She didn't give a rat's if Dumbledore's sister had been a squib or not, she was dead and it was sad but it was also irrelevant. Albus Dumbledore was dead, too.

That the Dumbledore family had had a house in Godric's Hollow wasn't news, either. It had been that house that Dumbledore had put the Potters in to hide. It had been destroyed when they were.

Hermione had just spotted a man with a drinks tray when Kingsley's Patronus fell through the canopy over the dance floor. The lynx landed lightly in the middle of the astonished guests, opened its mouth, and said, "The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeor is dead. They are coming."

Hermione's wand was in her hand instantly. She grabbed Harry by the arm and hauled him away from Doge.

"Ron! Ron where are you?"

Guests were Disapparating all over. The enchantments had failed.

_So fast? It must have been a coordinated attack—they knew Harry would be here. Of course they did._

Usually Ron was easy to pick out of a crowd—tall and ginger—but there were too many Weasleys in the tent to make it easy. Plus she was short, taller than usual but still short.

And then there he was. He looked right at them and then kept looking, obviously forgetting what they looked like with the Polyjuice.

"Ron," she said, grabbing him by the elbow. He jumped, started to pull away, but then recognized them.

She Disapparated, taking them to Tottenham Court Road. They'd stand out in their Wizarding dress robes, but that was the point. A Muggle place was easier to hide the famous Harry Potter.

"Where are we?" Ron asked.

"Tottenham Court Road," she said, keeping her hold on them and pulling them along with her. "Walk, just walk. We need to find some place to change."

They jogged up the wide dark street full of late-night revelers, stars twinkling above them. All the shops were closed. A double-decker bus rumbled by and a group of merry pub-goers gave them a funny look.

"Hermione, we haven't got anything to change into," Ron said when a young woman burst into raucous giggles at the sight of him.

"Why didn't I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me?" Harry said, chastising himself. "All last year I kept it on me and—"

"It's okay, I've got the Cloak. I've got clothes for both of you. Just try and act naturally until—this will do."

She pulled them into a shady alleyway.

"When you say you've got the Cloak, and clothes…"

"Yes, they're here." She had hidden her satchel in the little beaded purse that matched her dress robes. She opened the purse and then the satchel, sticking her arm in and rummaging around for the things they needed.

"How the ruddy hell—?"

"Undetectable Extension Charm," she said. "Tricky until you get the hang of them. Everything we need is in my satchel, which I've hidden in my purse."

"When did you do all this?" They took the clothes she handed them and began to change.

"I told you at the Burrow, I've had the essential packed for days in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning, Harry, after you changed, and put it in here… I just had a feeling…"

"You're amazing, you are," said Ron, handing her his dress robes.

"Thank you," Hermione said, putting the robes in her satchel. "Please, Harry, get that Cloak on."

Harry disappeared beneath the Cloak.

"The others—everyone at the wedding—"

"We can't worry about that now," Hermione said. Everybody at the wedding could fend for themselves, and everybody who couldn't fend for themselves had been attached to somebody else. Like she had Harry and Ron to take care of. "It's you they're after, Harry, and we'll just put everyone in even more danger by going back."

"She's right," said Ron. "Most of the Order was there, they'll look after everyone."

"Yeah." Harry's disembodied voice came from Ron's right.

"Come on, I think we ought to keep moving," Hermione said. She was trying to decide which safe house to take them to. Her first thought had been Grimmauld Place, hoping somebody from the Order would stop by and bring news, but the old house had been all but abandoned. Moody had put some nasty precautions in place should Severus ever show up.

"Just as a matter of interest, why Tottenham Court Road?" Ron asked as they walked.

"I've no idea," Hermione said honestly. "It just popped into my head, but I'm sure we're safer out in the Muggle world, it's not where they'll expect us to be."

"True," said Ron, looking around. "But don't you feel a bit—exposed?"

"Where else is there?" Hermione cringed as a few men across the road wolf-whistled at her. The Polyjuice had worn off, leaving her is a dress that was too large. It caught around her legs when she walked, and gaped down the front. "We can hardly book rooms at the Leaky Cauldron, can we? And Grimmauld Place is out if Snape can get in there… Oh, I wish they'd shut up!"

"All right, darling?" the drunkest of them was yelling. "Fancy a drink? Ditch ginger and come and have a pint!"

"Let's sit down somewhere." She was suddenly exhausted. And she needed to pee. "Look, this will do, in here."

It was a small, shabby all-night café. A light layer of grease lay on all the surfaces, but it was empty. Harry and Ron took up the side of the booth facing the door, so she ended up looking at the café. She hated it. Even at the Burrow, where she'd known she was safe, she'd made a point to face the door.

"You know, we're not far from the Leaky Cauldron here, it's only in Charing Cross—"

"No," Hermione said, tone brooking no argument. Ron gave her a slightly stunned look.

"Not to stay there, but to find out what's going on!"

"We know what's going on! Voldemort's taken over the Ministry. What else do we need to know?"

"Okay, okay. It was just an idea!"

They lapsed into silence. Hermione looked over her shoulder at the door so often that her neck was beginning to get sore. The waitress came over and Hermione ordered two cappuccinos. Two men entered the café and took the next booth. She didn't like it.

"I say we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head for the countryside. Once we're there, we could send a message to the Order."

"Can you do that talking Patronus thing, then?" Ron asked.

"Yes."

The waitress shuffled by to get the newcomers' orders.

"Let's get going, then. I don't want to drink this muck," Ron said. "Hermione, have you got Muggle money to pay for this?"

Hermione reached for her bag, which had her wallet with Muggle money in it, and the men in the booth moved as one. Hermione's wand was in her hand in a flash, Ron's only a second slower.

Spells were exchanged. One of the windows was blown out. Harry Stunned one and Hermione Petrified the other; Ron had been caught up with an _Incarcerous _almost immediately. She freed him with a swirl of her wand and then flicked her wand at the window shades.

_Diffindo_. She got Ron out of the conjured ropes and turned to look for Harry, though she didn't see him because of the Cloak.

"That's Travers," said Ron, looking at the one she'd Petrified. "I think that other one's Thorfinn Rowle. I recognize him from the wanted posters."

"Never mind what they're called," Hermione said, annoyed. "How did they find us?"

"Lock the door," Harry said somewhere nearby on her right. "And Ron, turn out the lights."

Ron clicked his Deluminator. Hermione locked the door.

"What are we going to do with them?" Ron asked. "Kill them? They'd kill us. They had a good go just now."

Hermione was reluctant to kill them in front of Harry and Ron, which was completely ridiculous. Harry was shaking his head, anyway.

"We'll wipe their memories," she suggested instead. The boys nodded.

Instead of getting right to the Obliviating, Hermione looked into their minds first. They'd been tracked because there was a Taboo on Voldemort's name. Figures.

"_Obliviate_."

She felt a bit guilty Obliviating the waitress, too, but it couldn't be helped. Ron and Harry cleared up while she took care of the memories.

"But how did they find us?" Harry asked when everything was set to right and the Death Eaters had been propped up in their booth. "How did they know where we were?"

"A Taboo," Hermione said, explaining it quickly and how she knew.

"That's cool," Ron said. She could tell he wanted to ask her to teach him Legilimency, but she turned away before he could.

"We need to go," she said, glancing out the blinds on the repaired window. The street was even more deserted than it had been before.

"Let's go to Grimmauld Place," Harry said.

"What if Snape can get in there?"

_Then that would be lovely. I'll give him a nice big kiss and you two can bugger off for a few hours._

"There are jinxes in place. The house is as good as any," Hermione said. She had a short list of safe houses, but she thought it would be good for Harry and Ron to be someplace they knew. And Grimmauld Place was much better stocked than any of her hideaways.

She took them to the front step of the old headquarters, inside the wards. It had taken a bit of practice to Apparate to the step—she'd landed in the bushes next to it once by accident.

Harry rapped the front door with his wand, and there were a series of metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain as the house opened up for him. The door swung open with a creek, and they hurried in.

Harry closed the door behind them as the old-fashioned gas lamps that lined the entryway sprang to life, casting flickering light. It looked just as it always did. The troll's leg umbrella stand was lying on its side as if Tonks had just knocked it over again.

"Somebody's been here," Hermione whispered. She hoped it hadn't been Severus—Moody had not been gentle with the protections against him.

"That could've happened as the Order left," Ron said.

"So where are these jinxes they put up against Snape?" Harry asked.

"Maybe they're only activated if he shows up?" Ron suggested.

Hermione took a step down the hall and Moody's voice whispered out of the darkness—"_Severus Snape?_"

"We're not Snape!" Harry croaked.

The spell breezed past them. Hermione's tongue curled backward on itself for a moment. Ron made retching noises.

"Tongue-Tying Curse," Hermione said, taking another few steps.

Something shifted at the end of the hall, and Hermione drew her wand and her knife. A figure rose out of the carpet, tall, dust-colored and terrible. One of them yelped loud enough that it woke Mrs. Black's portrait, and who began to scream. The gray figure glided toward them faster and faster, hair and beard streaming, its face sunken and fleshless with empty eye sockets. It was Dumbledore, horribly familiar but dreadful. The specter raised a wasted arm and pointed at them.

"No!" Harry shouted. "No! It wasn't us! We didn't kill you—"

Hermione drew a series of runes in the air with her wand and the figure exploded in a great cloud of dust. Coughing, they looked around at each other.

"_Mudbloods, filth, stains of dishonor, taint of shame on the house of my father_—"

"SHUT UP!" Harry bellowed, jabbing his wand at the curtains so hard that red sparks flew from it as the curtains swished closed.

Dust swirled around them like mist.

"That… that was…" Ron said, staring at the carpet runner.

"Yeah," Harry said. "But it wasn't really him, was it? Just something to scare Snape."

_It certainly _alarmed_ this Snape_, Hermione thought.

"_Homenum revelio_," Hermione said, raising her wand. There was no reaction—nobody in the house but them.

"What was it supposed to do?" Ron asked, sounding surprised that one of her spells hadn't worked. She smiled.

"It did what it was meant to do," Hermione said. "That was a spell to reveal human presence, and there's nobody here except us."

She turned so that her back was to the portrait and cast it again while facing Harry and Ron. Bright, twinkling blue lights danced near her wand tip. One for each of them.

"See?"

"Cool," said Ron. He cast it as well, directing it at her and Harry. It was a good first attempt—one of the lights jumped about a bit, but there were the right number of them.

"Let's go up," Harry said, and they did.

* * *

**A/N: So, I start a new job on Monday, and it's a writing job. I mention this because I wanted to give fair warning that I might be a little burned-out on the words front in the next few weeks, so I'm apologizing ahead of time if I don't quite make my two-a-week goal for myself. I'm hoping I'll make it; I've been uploading stuff all afternoon to edit and post... but I'm just putting it out there. So yeah.**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	32. Chapter Thirty-One

Severus had considered making an entrance. Waiting for the students to find their seats in the Hall then throwing the doors open. But it just wasn't practical. There was too much to see to.

Minerva had made the beginning of term paperwork hell. He'd had to create copies and check all of her work multiple times—she'd put extensive effort into masking the student lists, keeping the blood status of incoming students from him. He knew for a fact that she'd paid special visits to the families of Muggle-borns and warned them away, suggested Beauxbaton's or the Salem Institute. He'd hoped she would do just that, but he hadn't anticipated the glee she'd taken in misplacing scrolls and changing innocuous information.

He'd spent most of the first of September trying to sort out the house elves. When he hadn't been doing that, he'd been arguing with the Carrows about where they'd be seated at the Head Table.

_Fucking stupid day._

In the end, he was sitting in the overly ornate chair at the center of the staff table when the students entered. They fell silent when they saw him, as though they hadn't known about his placement for a month.

He kept his chin up and ignored the looks, which ranged from outraged glares to pure terror. He watched them enter, noted which ones looked particularly rebellious, noted that Draco Malfoy looked just as trapped at the Slytherin table between Crabbe and Zabini as he had at the Dark Lord's meeting table between his mother and father just two nights previous. The teachers on either side of him ignored him, as they had for the entirety of the summer.

The noise in the Hall had settled to a low mutter when Minerva entered with the first years. The little things looked so small. Fragile. There were fewer than he'd expected, and he hoped that was a good sign that the Muggle-borns had been spirited away. There was no song from the Sorting Hat this year; they'd discussed it. The Hat merely stated its purpose and kept quiet until Minerva got on with it.

Severus stood when the Sorting was finished, looking at each House table before he spoke. He kept his face blank, his Occlumency shields strong (more because it made it easier to think than because he was afraid one of the students was secretly a Legilimens waiting to catch him out).

"Thus begins a new school year," he said, his voice filling the Hall. It was a cold, foreign sound. "My staff and I would like to welcome our incoming first years." He paused, noting the first years bunched together at the near ends of the tables. "I expect all of you shall be a credit to this school.

"I would also like to take this opportunity to welcome our newest staff members," he said, indicating the Carrows, seated to his direct left. They'd wanted to flank him, to present a triad of Death Eaters, but he'd refused them; he wanted Minerva at his right hand. _Gods, imagine being surrounded by them…_ "Amycus and Alecto Carrow are taking over the positions of Muggle Studies and Defense Against the Dark Arts."

There was a wave of conversation down the tables. He waited patiently, not quite glaring, for it to subside.

"Returning students have undoubtedly guessed that this will be a year of many changes, not just in staffing—" He indicated the Carrows with a tilt of his head. "—but in curriculum and discipline." He didn't weight the word _discipline_, but he let his eyes linger on the Gryffindor table, and the message was clear. "Any… _rebellion_—" He made the word a joke. "—will be harshly met. This is a school; you are here to learn."

He sat down without further ado, and the tables filled with food. The warm, welcoming smells of the feast eased some of the tension out of the Hall, but not all of it. Severus watched the students at the Gryffindor table as he ate, noting the mutinous looks as the students picked at their food.

\\\

Classes began the next day, and he was inundated with disciplinary requests in earnest. Most were ridiculous—speaking out of turn, first years late to their first classes (presumably because they got lost), failure to enunciate to Filius's suddenly exacting standards. Most were for Slytherin students. There were only two serious requests, one from each of the Carrows, and both concerning Neville Longbottom.

_Bloody hell. _

He had hoped it would be at least a day before he was faced with it. A detention. He'd have to have a detention, possibly two—the example needed to be set. And failure on his part in this case would draw the attention of the Dark Lord.

_Fuck the fucking fuckity Gryffindor fuckwit._

His lunch—he'd decided after the last staff meeting before term (a week before students arrived) that he would only eat dinner in the Great Hall—was interrupted by Phineas Black's indignant arrival.

"Your _wife_ has stolen my portrait!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your little Mu—"

"Do not make me ask Filch to bring up the turpentine."

"Fine." Black hissed, settling into his painted chair and fussing with his robes. He was agitated, caught up in his own indignation but also… amused? "She's stolen my portrait. Your _sodding _wife took it from the ancient and most noble house of Black and stuffed it in a bag. I couldn't see a _thing_."

"Why did she take it?" he asked, trying not to show his amusement. Phineas was touchy. He was bound by the spells of the office, he couldn't betray the headmaster's secrets and he had to help if he was able, but the painted man had a habit of wandering off when he was annoyed. Particularly if he thought he'd be required to be useful when he didn't want to be.

"Maybe she wants to look at me," the man sneered. Severus rolled his eyes, flicking his wand at the portrait. The curtains he'd conjured flicked shut over the portrait, preventing Phineas from jumping to a different frame and effectively silencing him as well.

"Let that be a lesson to you all," Severus said, glaring around the room at the others. Most of the headmasters and headmistresses on the walls liked him, or at the very least pitied him. They did as he asked and were generally helpful, but they spent most of their time feigning sleep.

Behind him, Dumbledore chuckled. Severus ignored him, as he'd taken to doing whenever he could. They'd had a few conversations about running the school and other things pertinent to the war effort, but he still hadn't forgiven the man for his reaction to Hermione. And Dumbledore kept bringing her up, kept wanting to talk about it—and "talk about it" meant continue to chastise Severus for it.

\\\

The _Evening Prophet_ arrived at the end of dinner. Severus had just stood when the owls swooped in, bringing the staff and a surprisingly large number of students their copies. Severus took the newspaper and left the room, not looking at it until he was safely in his office again.

It was a good thing he'd waited because he almost fell over.

The front page story was on a break-in at the Ministry. Harry Potter had been spotted, Undesirable Number One himself. Which meant Hermione had been there.

A whole cell of Muggle-borns due to be registered had been broken out, and he prayed to anything listening that that hadn't been the entire point of the maneuver, but it seemed to have been. The article ran a list of those who escaped and asked the Wizarding community to be on the lookout.

Hermione's wanted poster—Undesirable Number Two, demoted now that Potter had been maneuvered into persona non grata status—was the entirety of page three. He folded the paper so that he could look at her and left it on the desk; she glared out at him from underneath the bold print declaring her reward sum. He wondered where the picture had come from; it was relatively recent.

\\\

"I feel I should warn you that your wife is on her way," Phineas said very late one evening toward the end of September.

"What? Why?" Severus asked, trying not to be excited at the prospect of seeing her. They had agreed they wouldn't visit each other. It was in their best interest to maintain pretenses; it could easily be disastrous if the wrong person—or even the wrong portrait—saw them together.

"I've no idea."

Severus snarled at the portrait, but Phineas merely held up his hands.

"She seems quite mad," the portrait said. "Utterly insane."

"What?"

"I've been in her bloody bag, haven't I? I don't know what they're up to. All I know is that one minute all's quiet, and the next she's yanked me and a dozen other things out, rearranging her bag, asking me to come here and make sure you're alone."

Severus blinked. _At least she's not injured_, he supposed. He adjusted the dial on one of Dumbledore's spindly devices, locking down the wards on his office, and looked back to Phineas. "Tell her to Apparate in, then."

Phineas did as he was told with poor grace. Seconds later, there was a _crack!_ and Hermione stood in the center of his office.

She was radiant. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten how beautiful she was. How overwhelming it was to be in the same room as she was, the warmth of her mind against his, the utterly disarming knowledge that she knew all his flaws and loved him beyond reason.

She also looked like hell. Her hair was limp, pulled back from her face in a loose ponytail of suspiciously flat curls. She had dark circles under her eyes, and lines on her face that hadn't been there the last time he'd seen her—the faintest of lines near her eyes and mouth, but he spotted them immediately. She was pale, paler than usual; paler, in fact, than he was. She wore a plain navy robe over a loose Muggle skirt and top. She looked exhausted and a little bit sick. Worried. Run-down.

"Oh, my darling," he heard himself say. She was in his arms in a flash. He'd been waiting, leaned against the edge of his desk, and he held her to him. She was shaking. "Hermione, what's happened? What's the matter?"

He'd had a number of ridiculous things to say come to mind in those seconds he'd been waiting—jokes that wouldn't be funny—but none of them would do. For all the preparation they'd been through, all the training Dumbledore had had her literally circumvent the laws of time to acquire, it looked as though something had gone wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

Oh, hell. She was crying.

"Hermione. Tell me." He reached out with his mind, not trying to read it from her but just trying to comfort, support. He wanted to wrap her up in a blanket and hold her on his lap like he had after she'd been stabbed.

"I've been incredibly stupid," she said, pulling back from him and scrubbing her hands over her face. She seemed more annoyed at the tears than sad. He raised an eyebrow.

"I doubt that."

"No, no. I have," she insisted. She took her satchel off her shoulder and tossed it casually on the ladder-backed chair facing his desk. She beamed at him, then, but a moment later the expression was gone and she was biting her lip while she avoided eye contact.

"What in the world…?"

She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, and smiled at him again. "Hello, Severus."

"…Hello."

"I love you. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that." He couldn't help it if his tone was a bit sharp; she wasn't making sense.

They looked at each other for a moment, and he noted that she was Occluding. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Oh, hell. I'm doing this all wrong!"

"Hermione, for Merlin's sake," he said, grabbing her by the elbow and bringing her over by the fire so that he could push her down into the plush armchair there. In the warm light of the fire, she looked less tired and more worried. He reached out with his mind, caressing, and her eyes fluttered closed.

He knelt on the floor between her spread knees, hands twined with hers in her lap. On his knees as he was, his eyes were even with her chin. It was easy for her to lean forward, pressing their foreheads together.

Severus left off questioning her for a moment, just enjoying being with her in the quiet. September had been brutal; he could feel the tension building in the school, could see the lines being drawn. It was going to get worse, but for now he was here with Hermione.

"I didn't even think of it," she said. He opened his eyes, but hers were closed. He watched her, though with their foreheads together as they were it was hard to see her full expression. "I should have thought of it. Hell, even after the fact I should have put things together sooner than I did."

"What's happened?" he asked again, quietly, when she lapsed into silence.

Hermione opened her eyes and beamed at him again, sitting back and twining her fingers more tightly with his. She was positively brimming with happiness. Sudden, overwhelming joy. She'd stopped Occluding, though he couldn't see the source of her joy through all the delight beating down on him.

"It's wonderful and it's awful. It's a mistake and it shouldn't have happened, but I can't help being glad that it did." She sighed, closing her eyes again, packing away all that happy excitement. He wanted to reach out and pull it back, wanted to bask in it.

"Are you hurt? Have you been cursed?" She was babbling. She wasn't making sense. He couldn't think of a reason why she'd come to him when there was so much to do unless something had happened that she couldn't fix herself (or talk one of those boys through doing). Perhaps she was out of it from a curse and was glad she'd been cursed because it was an excuse to see him?

"I'm not hurt. I haven't been cursed."

She leaned down and kissed him. It was a bedroom kiss, deep and immediately intimate. He responded in kind without thought, dropping his hands down to hold her waist, lifting them up to tangle his fingers in her hair. She grabbed him around the shoulders and slid off the chair, pushing him back onto his heels.

She was pressed into him, almost straddling his thighs, every inch of them together from hips to chest. And there was something between them. A bump. A… not a hardness, but it wasn't a softness either.

He pulled back, eyes flying open. She met his eyes, biting her lip nervously.

"Hermione?"

"I—er." She was frozen as she was, a secret pressed into his stomach. He could feel the nerves radiating off her, the worry about his reaction foremost among many others.

"Thank you."

It was a stupid thing to say, but it made her smile. Some of the tension leaked away. She stopped biting her lip and bit at his instead until he kissed her into submission. He kissed every inch of her skin that his lips could reach across her face and neck until one of the portraits loudly cleared its throat.

"Spoilsport," one of the other portraits said, presumably to the one that had cleared its throat.

"It's been _so _long since we had a _young _headmaster," another said wistfully.

Severus couldn't even bring himself to blush, to be embarrassed. He was crying like a fool, and there were fresh tears on her cheeks, too.

"Come," he whispered to her, shooting a glare over his shoulder in the general direction of the thickest gathering of portraits. "We'll sleep, and then we'll plan."

\\\

In the morning, she was still there. Naked, her back pressed to his front. She was still sound asleep; he'd woken when he'd accidentally tried to breathe some of her hair, out of practice at brushing it away in his sleep.

Severus held her until she woke, trying to wrap his mind around the situation. He couldn't even think well enough to begin planning. He couldn't seem to get past the sheer emotional wall of the little bump just there. He ran his hand along it, Hermione's skin soft under his fingertips.

His moment of joy crashed around his ears when his wards trilled, alerting him to a presence at the base of the stairs. A moment of focus and he knew it was Minerva, probably come to disturb his Saturday morning with paperwork.

For one crazy moment, he wanted to bound down the stairs and swing the Head of Gryffindor around. They'd been friends for ages; she'd been the witness at their wedding. If it was a girl, they'd probably name it Minerva.

_Good Gods. I'm going to be a father._

Minerva knocked again, and Severus slid out of bed. He was in a good mood, so he'd put her in a good mood. He didn't dress, he simply tied his thick green dressing gown securely and went down to the office to let her in.

"Good morning, Minerva," he said, trying to sound tired instead of jubilant. "What do you have for me today?"

The deputy headmistress had frozen in the doorway, eyes goggling at his state of undress. He wondered belatedly if he had any love bites he should have made an effort to cover up.

"Come now. You're the one who yanked me out of bed at—" He looked dramatically over at the carriage clock on the mantle. "—seven in the morning. On a Saturday."

Shaking herself, Minerva crossed the room with a sharp click of heeled boots. She presented him with a thick dossier full of parchment slips.

"The week's disciplinary requests."

"Oh, good."

"And I wanted to speak to you about Hogsmeade visits."

They bickered about Hogsmeade for almost an hour before they both clearly heard Hermione moan happily upstairs. Severus smirked when Minerva's eyes darted down to his bare feet and ankles.

"You have a guest?"

"I'm sure she can take care of herself for the time being."

One of the portraits cackled the way only witches can, only to be shushed by one of the others.

Minerva glared at him until she remembered that he could read her mind with eye contact. Then she looked off at Dumbledore's portrait, though the headmaster was feigning sleep as usual.

She settled in for the long haul after that. After he conceded that Valentine's Day could be added as a Hosmeade day given that they had removed the day in the village for January, she started in on Hagrid's pumpkins in preparation for Halloween. Then it was the Carrows' latest shortcomings as teachers. He finally tossed her out when she started in on the Muggle Studies curriculum.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said when he joined her in the sitting room. She had a full breakfast spread on the coffee table under a Stasis Charm and was nursing a cup of tea while reading a book on gravity in relation to transfigured mass. "I didn't realize the door was open, and the house elves had all this set out for us. And, for the first time in ages, I was actually hungry."

"I thought pregnant women were supposed to be hungry all the time," he said, not bothering to hide the giddy grin that crawled across his face.

"No, that's teenaged boys," she said, sharing his grin. She resettled on the couch when he joined her, accepting a bite of his toast once he had it spread with jam. "I've been queasy most mornings for the past month, actually. It's something that should have tipped me off well before now."

"Now?"

"Yes. I only realized I was pregnant yesterday night. I was putting away the supper things and realized I hadn't had my period in ages. I hadn't thought much of it; I assumed it was stress. But then I started thinking about the nausea on and off, and especially in the mornings, and how tired I've been since before Bill and Fleur's wedding." She rolled her eyes. "I've been just exhausted, Severus. Ridiculously tired. I've been crying all the time at the slightest little thing. And my boobs have been sore."

Severus smirked, recalling. She had grabbed his hands the previous night, imploring him to be gentle with her breasts when he'd tried to touch them. He had been _very_ gentle.

"Do you know what happened that the potion was neutralized?" He'd brewed the last batch of her contraceptive himself. He'd been with her when she'd taken the dose shortly after returning to the student body to watch Harry Potter.

"I was given Blood Replenishing Potion that night." She didn't have to specify which. "I was burned or something and didn't realize how much I'd been bleeding until I collapsed."

"You didn't tell me about that."

"I was fine." Then she looked sheepish. "And, really, we were a little busy fucking to properly exchange accounts."

"True."

They sat in silence for awhile. He finished his breakfast and she Banished her book back to the shelf.

"So," he said. "We'll use the Time Turner?"

"Yes, I think we'll have to."

* * *

They went to the Shrieking Shack to Turn back. They'd needed a place that was magically grounded (Hogwarts was the best option, but it would've been difficult to get out of the castle without being noticed), and the Shack was more-or-less guaranteed to be empty.

"Okay," Hermione said, pulling the Time Turner out from under her shirt and lengthening the chain so that it could go around Severus's neck, too. "Two years." She shifted the rings around to the appropriate positions. "We're probably both going to vomit," she warned him. He just smiled the same dreamy smile he'd had on his face since he'd realized she was carrying his child.

"We'll be fine." He pecked her on the lips and hitched his duffel bag more securely onto his shoulder.

"Alright then."

She activated the Time Turner, and watched the grime-coated window. There was a vague difference between night and day as time sped backwards, flashing faster and faster. At first, she didn't notice anything wrong. The light flickered outside the window, the dust mites inside circled hazily.

She felt it on her neck first. The chain was hot. She looked over at Severus and saw that he'd noticed it, too. Looking down, she saw that the chain was almost red with heat close to the Time Turner. The Time Turner itself was red going white, and the tips of her fingers were red and blistered, going black from the heat.

Hermione tried to scream, tried to drop the Time Turner, but she was frozen in the pull of the little super-heated device. The scream came out a whimper. Severus's eyes were huge, his movements slow, like he was moving through water.

It had never been difficult to move while she was Turning. She hadn't moved much, because that made the nausea worse, but it hadn't been a struggle.

_Something's wrong. Something's wrong. Something's wrong!_

It could've been her thought, or Severus's. She couldn't tell.

The world narrowed to the burning of her fingers. She hardly felt the heat on the back of her neck where the chain was beginning to burn her; it didn't compare.

Vaguely, she could feel the passage of time slow. The spinning became a whirling, and she closed her eyes against the vertigo she knew would follow. She focused on Severus's breathing, tried not to pass out.

* * *

**A/N: So she finally figured it out. Yes, I know it took her forever. She's been distracted. **

**And I apologize (but only a little) for the cliffhanger.**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

When she woke, she was lying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. The trap door leading to the castle was just a few feet away, blocked by wooden crates. The room smelled of vomit.

Hermione opened her eyes. It was gloomy as ever. Dust mites lazily drifted through the single, tiny shaft of sunlight that filtered through a clean spot in the window where the gunk had flaked away from the glass.

Her head hurt like she had a hangover. Her guts churned, and she could taste bile at the back of her throat. When she moved her head too fast, the world swam around.

"Oh," she moaned, sitting up and squeezing her eyes closed.

Severus grunted from next to her, the way he did in his sleep sometimes when she woke in the middle of the night. She looked over, blinking slowly while she waited for her eyes to refocus. He was sprawled on his stomach, face turned away from her. One hand had flopped in her direction, and the other was trapped under his body. His opposite shoulder rested in a congealed pool of foul-smelling sick.

She flicked her wrist, clearing away the vomit, and then wished she'd left it. Lights exploded inside her skull, pain blooming at her temples, a dull throb striking up a cadence at the crown of her head. She turned away from him and threw up.

She felt marginally better when she finished vomiting. The world didn't swim when she turned her head, though everything still hurt. She noted that her right pant leg was stuck in a dried pool of sick, bits clinging to it when she pulled her leg away.

\\\

She didn't remember passing out, but the next time she woke the room was dark. Severus had moved closer, and they were half holding each other. He had his head on her chest and she had one arm around his shoulders.

The room smelled terrible. The air was close and stifling, the smell of their collective sick hanging heavy over a myriad of other unpleasant smells. Unwashed bodies, urine, burnt flesh.

"Oh, God," Hermione moaned. Her head hurt. Every muscle in her body was stiff, aching. Her eyes were gritty. Her stomach churned uncomfortably. All of it paled in comparison to the burning pain of her hands. "_Oh, God_."

Severus grunted, and then jerked awake. He sat up so sharply he almost took her arm off. She moaned, tears springing to her eyes when the side of her thumb bumped against the smooth wool of his frock coat.

"Oh, God," she said again because she couldn't think of any other words.

"I got Essence of Murtlap on them, and Burn Paste," Severus said, sitting cross-legged next to her and holding her wrists. "I kept passing out."

Hermione sucked in air, drawing her Occlumency shields up to force herself to think, to compartmentalize, to block off the pain so that she could fix it.

Her hands were crusty with the dried remnants of the Murtlap-Burn Paste slurry he'd accidentally created treating her hands. That explained the awful flecked-orange look to them, the sickening slick coating she could feel between her fingers. The rest of her hands was red and blistered, her fingertips black with scabs. He'd probably saved her sense of touch acting as he had.

"Please tell me it wasn't like this every time you made any major Turns back," Severus said.

"It's never been this bad," she said, then turned her head away and choked back bile. She'd moved her hands and bits of flesh and dried paste had flaked off.

"Something went wrong, didn't it?"

"Yes. Where did the Time Turner go?"

"I threw it over there."

"Threw it?"

"When we stopped, I yanked it off us. It stuck to your hand; it was burning you. I flinched. I just threw it, then I threw up." He swallowed convulsively. "Then I found the Murtlap Essence and dunked your hands in it before things went black. The Time Turner was still red-hot when I woke up enough to get the Burn Paste out. We're lucky it didn't set this dry old house on fire."

"Thank you for…"

He shook his head, turning her hands over with his grip on her wrists. They didn't look good, but it was manageable. She'd seen much worse burns from cauldron explosions. It was just that these were _her_ hands needing to be cleaned and mended.

Hermione shoved away every unnecessary thought, talking Severus through cleaning and cleansing her hands. She did her best not to react, holding as still as she could. He cleaned away the dried mess of first aid, conjured a small tub for water. She dunked her hands and he scraped away the flaking paste and bits of charred skin on the very tips of her fingers. Then came more Burn Paste.

When it was finished, she pressed her forehead to his breastbone, trying not to cry. It _hurt_.

"Burns are the worst."

\\\

They spent another six hours sitting on the floor in the Shrieking Shack, staring numbly at the walls, reapplying Burn Paste to her hands every half hour. She diluted Essence of Dittany and soaked her hands for a bit every third application of the Burn Paste.

"They've made remarkable progress."

"You acted quickly."

"I'm just glad you had your kit."

They'd cleaned up a bit while they'd waited for the Burn Paste to do its work. Cleansing Charms on hair and teeth, a thorough _Scourgify_ for their clothes and the room around them. Severus had even forced one of the windows open to let some air in.

"How are your hands?"

"Stiff," she said, holding them out for his inspection. He'd just spelled away the Burn Paste one last time, revealing new pink skin. Her fingertips were a bit swollen, slightly darker pink. What she'd told him was true, though; her hands were just a bit stiff.

"Thank Merlin."

"No, thank _you_."

He sighed, putting her hands in her lap and pecking her on the nose before he stood up. She watched him walk to the near wall and stoop, rising with the Time Turner dangling by its chain. It looked exactly as it always did, only dimmer. It wasn't reflecting light the way it normally did, though the light was murky and dim.

"It's… dead," he said, prodding it with his wand.

"Dead?"

"Dead." His wand hadn't provoked a reaction, so he put it back up his sleeve and tried to manipulate the rings. They wouldn't budge. "It's fused in place."

"_When_ are we?" Hermione asked, dread pooling at the base of her spine.

JUNE 3, 1990

They stared at each other, the spell for the date hovering between them.

"We're lucky we didn't die," Hermione said.

"How did this happen?"

"I have no idea."

"And there's no telling how long we were just laying here, passing out and soiling ourselves," he said after a long moment. Hermione nodded.

"We're lucky we didn't end up a hundred years ago. Or that it didn't just blow up outright. Or that it didn't just send us back three days or something entirely unhelpful."

"Is the baby—?"

"Fine. It's fine; I'm fine. If something was wrong, it would've shown up when I cast the diagnostic to check my hands."

"You should probably teach me to read those."

Hermione smiled at him.

* * *

He was hovering and he knew it bothered her, but he couldn't help it. They'd come out of the Time Turner disaster with a red line across the backs of their necks where the Time Turner's chain had been and little other evidence of their trouble. Her hands were uncalloused and sore, but fine.

After spending the night at the Shrieking Shack, curled up on conjured cushions under his cloak, they'd changed into Muggle clothes and Apparated to London. They'd spent the morning shopping, and then bought tickets for the next flight to Australia.

Simon and Cora Blake had arrived in Sydney and spent a day in a hotel room falsifying Muggle documentation. Then they'd acquired a used truck and started driving.

They'd been on the road for a week. He knew she was fine. She looked a hell of a lot better than she had when she'd shown up in his office, for one thing. He'd also caught her putting her hand on her bump while she looked out the window. She looked remarkably peaceful. He couldn't help it if he wanted to do things for her, though.

"I can bus my own tray," she'd told him when he'd taken her dishes to the counter with his at lunch. He'd shrugged and opened the door on her side of the truck for her, too. She'd scowled at him, but she'd smiled too.

\\\

They found the house when they were driving through Mary Valley on their way to Brisbane. There was a sign stuck out at the end of the dirt driveway. The driveway was rutted from use by big trucks, but the trucks were nowhere to be seen. There were trees on either side, suddenly opening on a clearing, the house standing in the middle of it, some of the felled trees still stacked up on one side of the driveway.

Two weeks later, they moved in.

The couple that had built the house had intended it to be a place to retire to with plenty of room for their grandchildren. The realtor hadn't shared the whole story, but Severus got the impression that one of them had died, leaving the just-completed house empty and on the market.

The house was gray with a bright blue door. The kitchen was large and had a breakfast nook. The formal dining room attached to the kitchen by way of French doors. There was a large living space with an oversized bay window at the front of the house. There were two rooms on the ground floor that didn't seem to have a purpose, though one had enough built-in shelving and had probably been intended to be an office. There was also a mud room at the back of the house, past the kitchen, that led out to a small attached deck and a large patch of the yard that had been fenced off like it was intended to be a garden.

Upstairs, there were six bedrooms. Two were smaller, three were medium-sized, and the one at the opposite end of the house from the stairs was a master suite. It had a large walk-in closet, an ensuite bathroom, and a little balcony that overlooked the side yard and garden shed.

"There's so much space," Hermione said when they'd first walked in. The house was officially theirs, and it was an overwhelming thought. _Their house_. "We don't even have any furniture."

He'd laughed because she was right. He had a house in Manchester, and she had several flats around Britain, and together they owned quite a bit of furniture. None of it was here and now, though.

They'd slept in the tent she'd had in her satchel that first night. It was the same tent Arthur Weasley had borrowed from somebody-or-another to house his children and their friends when they went to the Quidditch World Cup. Hermione had borrowed it as a back-up plan. They'd set the tent up between the house and the shed, and enlarged one of the camp beds to sleep together.

\\\

The first month flew by.

They warded the house and property beyond necessity, layering security and alerts with a few gentle anti-Muggle charms. They unpacked what they did have into the walk-in closet, which only made the closet look bigger because there was so much empty space, and set out their toiletries in the bathroom. They drove into the nearest town—Kenilworth—and bought furniture and groceries and seeds to plant in the garden.

Hermione was almost seven months pregnant, and she finally looked it. After a month of good, hot meals and regular rest, she looked well. She'd even bought a book on pregnancy at a wizarding shop in Brisbane, and she used a charm to listen to the baby's heartbeat every night before they went to sleep.

"I want another one," she told him in the dark.

"Another what?" he asked, half-asleep.

"Another baby."

"We haven't even had the first one yet." He wished she would save these confusing conversations for daylight hours. She tended to spring them on him, usually like this when he was dead-tired from a day out in the sun gardening.

"I know. I just like it."

"Like what?" He rolled over and propped his head up on his fist so that he could see her better. Obviously, they wouldn't be sleeping yet. "Being pregnant?"

"That's not what I meant. I mean I like the idea of having _children_. We have the time—we have _years_, Severus."

"But in the end we'll have to go back to the war."

She was quiet for long enough that he thought she might've fallen asleep.

"But if we have more than one, if we die our child won't be alone."

That was the last time either of them mentioned the war for a long time. It was a quiet dread waiting for them at the end of this peaceful interlude, and they knew from the timbre of the quiet sometimes that they were both thinking about it.

* * *

The charms told her she was eight months pregnant to the day. According to them, she would go into labor in a month and two days, and there wasn't anything to worry about. She was still worried, though. They'd fitted out the bedroom nearest theirs as a nursery, and they'd had a few meetings with a local midwife, and she'd read everything she could get her hands on.

But she wanted to talk to her mother. And she wanted to talk to Mrs. Weasley, because she'd done this many times and been a witch. And she wanted to talk to Poppy, who was a mediwitch. And she wanted to talk to Minerva, because Minerva had been the one she went to when she first got her period and it just seemed like good symmetry to talk to her about childbirth, too.

Severus had a job at a book store in town. He didn't hate it, but she knew he didn't really like it either. With any luck, he'd be able to quit in a few months when the garden was properly sprouted and they could sell the plants as ingredients to the apothecary in Brisbane.

It was difficult trying to make money honestly when all their proper credentials were wizarding but they were trying to avoid the notice of wizards. They'd bought the house using fake credit and false documentation, but they didn't want to rely on it; they'd both had enough dishonesty in their lives.

"Hi."

Hermione blinked. There was a woman in jeans and a tank top standing outside the garden gate. Presumably she wasn't a Muggle because the wards would've had her wandering back in the direction of home.

"Hello."

_This isn't the war_, she reminded herself. _She would've set the alert off if she'd snuck across the wards with any sort of secrecy charms on her. And she just walked up and said hello; that's a horrible opening if the end goal is an attack. This isn't the war._

"My name's Jane Atkins. I live in town. I would've introduced myself sooner, but I figured you all would want to settle in a bit."

"Yeah. Hi." Hermione stood up, rubbing her hands on her jeans. Her wand was in the sheath on her left arm, but her knife was in the kitchen. She did have the sharp little trowel in her hand… _Not the war._ "I'm Cora Blake."

She made a mental note to check the wards and add an alert for when even non-hostile witches crossed the property line.

Jane grinned. "Sorry. I just can't remember the last time I ran into another witch."

"I can imagine," Hermione said. One of the prime reasons they'd chosen Australia was its small magical population, spread wide across the large continent. They'd been hoping there wouldn't be anywhere near anybody else vaguely magical.

Jane launched into her story. She and her husband, Ed, were originally from Sydney. Jane was an editor for _Sherman Press_, a peer-reviewed potions journal. Ed did something with charms for a private firm. They had two girls, a five-year-old named Ursula and a two-year-old named Amelia.

"Oh, you have so much to look forward to," Jane said. They were in the house now. Hermione had pulled out the lemonade, and Jane had gone on from her basic backstory to the joys of parenthood.

They were in the middle of a very strange conversation, Jane going off about the challenges of properly raising magical plants for use in potions, when Severus arrived.

"Hey, Her-oney. Hey, Honey."

"Simon," Hermione said, smirking. She got up to pour him a lemonade and kissed him on the cheek. "This is Jane Atkins. She lives in Kenilworth and thought it was about time she came to say hello."

"Thought you'd like to know there were people around who know what's what," Jane said, grinning.

_Is she from the government? Should I Stupefy her?_

_Actually, I'm hoping she'll put in a good word for you about a job…_

* * *

"That was… utterly strange," Severus said into the dark. They were in bed—and they had a real bed now, not a conjured one—lying next to each other and staring up into the dark.

"Did we just make friends with that couple? I think we just made friends. I can't tell, though. I've always been bad at knowing when I was friends with somebody."

"I should think we did. We invited them—_and_ their children—over for dinner Friday."

"We should probably buy a table."

"We could use the breakfast nook."

"Isn't this what dining rooms are _for_, though? You put a nice rug down and forbid the children from going in there unsupervised, and only use it when you invite friends over for dinner. Or you plan to use it—you set the table and make it all look nice, then spend the whole time standing in the kitchen together."

"How the hell should I know? You saw the house I grew up in. Do you think my parents had friends over for dinners?"

"My parents had people over all the time. Well. They did before I started having uncontrollable bits of magic pop up at the supper table. I was so bored, sitting there listening to them talk about molars."

"Your magic lashed out in a fit of boredom?"

"Yes. More than once."

"That must be true boredom."

"Well. I hadn't experience History of Magic with Binns yet. But by then I had better control, I suppose."

"It's all about the Goblin Wars with that man."

"I feel like that's an important class. Or would be if it was taught right."

"You're not alone in that opinion."

"It sounds like there's a story there."

"Oh, there are plenty of stories there. Mostly it's a long list of not-quite-fights between Dumbledore and McGonagall. He stood by the Hogwarts tradition of having a completely useless class, utterly boring and not particularly informative. She wanted to rewrite the syllabus, bring in a new teacher, and simply hold class in a different room; Binns would never know."

Hermione laughed quietly, shifting onto her side. Her pregnant belly pressed into his ribs. After half a moment, the baby kicked him.

"I love it here," Hermione said, almost whispering. "It's almost perfect."

"Almost?"

"There are poisonous snakes here, and that gives me the willies on principle. And none of our friends or family live here. And it's bloody hot."

Severus smiled, lifting his hand and running it along her ribs, then across her belly. He turned on his side so that he was facing her, his body arched around their child inside her.

"Our Cooling Charms are set. It's perfectly nice in the house."

"Yes, in the _house_," she said. He could see the gleam of her teeth in the dim light—faint moonlight streamed through their curtain-less windows, but the moon was on the other side of the house. "We've been gardening for two days."

"You don't have to. I can finish on my own."

"I want to help, Severus. I don't want to just sit inside and—I don't know—knit booties."

He smiled because she'd spent most of the morning working on just that project. They'd given in to their curiosity and used a charm to find out that it was a boy, and they'd even picked out a name (Sebastian Rubeus, after Hagrid and because they both thought Sebastian Snape had a nice ring to it); the next logical step was for her to knit little blue booties, of course.

"I can feel you laughing at me," she said.

"I'm not laughing."

"No, but you're _amused_ by me."

"Knitting booties in Australia is amusing," he said, defensive. "As you said before, it's hot here."

"I just don't have much else to do."

And that was true enough. He knew it was driving her a bit mad, too. He'd found a part-time job fairly easily, and there were definite possibilities for more interesting work through Jane Atkins. Hermione hadn't had any luck, though; mostly because potential employers saw that she was about to have a baby and didn't want to bother training her up for their shop if she was just going to quit when the baby was born. (Since that was indeed the plan, she hadn't fought them on it.)

He went to work, he came home. They worked on the house, they worked on the garden. On his days off, they foraged for furniture and the like. While he was gone, she usually read his books or added layers to the wards to keep crocodiles away. She was very bored, and they both knew it was only a matter of time before she was very busy; but for now she was knitting booties.

\\\

The best part about Australia—maybe not the actual best part, but one of the highlights—was the house. It was _their _house for one. It was also filled with natural light, with windows along every external wall and no curtains to speak of. So very different from his rooms in the dungeons. Even different from his rooms in the headmaster's tower, which had a few rooms with a view but otherwise the walls were covered in bookcases instead of windows.

And yet they were buying curtains. They were going to block out all that wonderful light. Because, apparently, that's what civilized people did. They put curtains in their windows even though they didn't have neighbors and the house was surrounded by trees.

"What do you think?" Hermione asked, holding up two near-identical items. They were both cream-colored gauzy things, one with more texture than the other. He didn't understand why she was choosing so many neutral colors—the house was already all beige and white, because that was the color Muggles painted houses when they were trying to sell them.

"They both look fine."

"Yes, but which one do you like better?"

"The white one."

"Severus."

"Hermione."

"These are for our bedroom. You can pretend to care."

"I like whichever one you like."

"That's what you said about the curtains for Sebastian's room."

"He's an infant. He's not going to care what the curtains look like. All that matters is that they block enough light that he naps during the daytime."

Hermione sighed, pressing the pad of her thumb against the space between her eyes. Then she turned and tossed the less-textured curtains in the cart on top of the gray-blue curtains for the baby's room, the olive green drapes for the living room, the cream and blue checked curtains for the kitchen, and the ochre-red apron she'd picked out so far.

"Let's go look at rugs."

He barely contained a groan, and she spun to glare at him. He put his hands up, mollifying, defensive.

"Don't you even care?"

"It's just stuff, Hermione. What does it matter?"

She'd been reminding him of Narcissa Malfoy in a strange way. Not a bad way—Cissy was the lesser of all evils when it came to the Death Eaters—but in an odd, always talking about "bringing a room together" and "conversation pieces" sort of way.

"Normal lives, Severus! Remember how we wanted this? Remember talking about this?" He blinked. He remembered talking about normal lives, remembered wanting it so badly that they'd cried together more than once. (Nobody had said anything about the damned curtains, though.) "Well, now we have it. And what happens? We're fighting. What if we can't do it, Sev? We came together in a war, under pressure, stressed out of our minds, lying to our friends—what if we can't do normal? What if, under normal circumstances, all of it falls apart?"

Severus laughed. He laughed so hard he had to sit down. When he recovered himself, she had her arms crossed, resting on her pregnant belly, glaring at him.

_This isn't funny_.

"Hermione," he said. He reached up and she, reluctantly, let him take her hands in his. "We can do normal just fine. I just really, truly, honestly _don't give a flying fuck_ what color the curtains are. As long as you like staying there and you let me stay there with you, I have everything I need."

"Damn hormones," she muttered, turning away to hide the tear that escaped one eye. He smirked and kissed her palm and stood up, pulling her into a hug. She melted against him, tension that he hadn't even noticed was there leaking away.

"Let's go look at rugs," he said, resigned to it. She had the day planned out, shops marked out on a map in the truck. "Those I care about more than curtains. I don't want any of those damned rugs that are always flopping up. Tripping hazards. We're going to be carrying a baby around the house, you know."

"I love you, you know that?"

"Is that why you're making me search myself for feelings about home décor?"

"Yes."

"My feelings are that we should just charm the damned glass opaque whenever we're tired of looking at the trees."

"That's not the point of curtains, Severus."

"That's exactly their point. It's their purpose. It's what they do; they block the view."

"But what about the method of it? At night, when the sun sets, going around and closing the curtains for the evening, having one last look out at everything."

"The Zen of the curtains."

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you."

"You are."

They arrived at the section of rugs. They were… rugs.

"What do you think of this one for the bathroom?"

Severus groaned.

* * *

Hermione frowned at the books on the table. She wasn't sure where to begin. Or rather, she knew exactly where she should begin but she just didn't feel inclined to do so. It was a strange feeling; she usually didn't have a problem throwing herself into theoretical work.

She had half a mind to put on her apron and bake a loaf of bread or something. She'd already cleaned everything in the house. She'd rearranged the nursery half a dozen times. They were as ready as they could be, but she still felt like she should be _doing_ something. Baking bread sounded imminently more useful than reading a few books.

She stood up, and that's when her water broke.

"Severus!"

She'd had a few contractions the week before. Sebastian had dropped low two days ago, moving around, getting ready to be born. She looked at the clock as if it mattered—ten o'clock in the morning, November 2, 1990. It was a Friday.

"Severus!"

She stood in her own puddle, breathing, waiting for a contraction. That was what followed, right? She was officially in labor. Now came the contractions and the rush to the hospital and the pushing and the baby. They were avoiding the wizarding world, so it would be the Muggle hospital.

"What?" Severus called from the shed. He'd turned it into a lab, setting up his cauldrons and working out a clever shelving system for ingredients. Jane had indeed got him the right connections, and he'd been offered a job in potions in no time. (Actually, he'd been offered several jobs, but he'd just taken the one.)

"Severus!"

All the windows in the house were open, as was the door to his lab. It was a hot, beautiful morning. There was just enough breeze that, with all those windows and doors open, it was just about comfortable inside without Cooling Charms.

"_Severus_."

"What's the matter?" He walked into the house, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Baby," she said stupidly, still frozen in her place.

"Is that—Did your—?"

"_Oh_." A contraction, stronger than any from the week before but not very long, squeezed through her. She reached for Severus, locking her fingers around his arm.

* * *

Sebastian Rubeus Snape was born fourteen hours later, just before midnight. By all counts, the labor had been as easy and uncomplicated as her pregnancy.

"Didn't feel easy," Hermione had muttered to him when the doctors had been telling her how lucky she'd been, how well everything had gone, how easy the labor had been. Severus felt it was best to agree with her since his main contribution had been to hold her hand and apologize sporadically after the big pushes.

Little Sebastian was tiny and pale, with a thick head of black hair and Severus's dark eyes. He was two days old now, noticeably larger than he had been at the very beginning.

"Good set 'a lungs on 'im!" one of the doctors had said, and that had held true. Sebastian was well able to let them know when they were failing as parents.

Currently, they seemed to be doing okay. Hermione was showering—he couldn't remember if she'd had a chance to do that since they'd returned from the hospital—and Severus was sitting with the baby. He wasn't sure what, exactly, they were supposed to be doing. Little Sebastian was fed, he had a dry diaper, and he didn't seem particularly inclined to sleep. They were just sort of staring at each other.

They'd bought a rocking chair for the nursery. It was more of a glider than a rocker, and it had wonderful cushions. The seat was wide and deep, the arm rests were soft. It was the perfect chair to sit with Sebastian, the seat deep enough so that Severus could lay the baby on his thighs and the arm rests would rise on either side like guard rails.

Sebastian lay on Severus's lap, staring up, purely innocent. He was a pale little thing—_so little_. Ten fingers, ten toes. He went pink when he was annoyed, red when he was angry. Right now, though, he was pale, calm. He was swaddled—one of the nurses had taught them all about swaddling—in a pale blue blanket, but one little fist stuck out by his chin, gripping the top edge of the blanket like he was going to pull it up over his shoulder and roll over. (Of course, he was just two days old and he couldn't hold his own head up, let alone roll over.) Severus nudged the fingers, and they loosed their hold on the blanket to curl around his finger instead.

_So very, very small. And perfect. Absolutely perfect._

* * *

Sebastian had this way of looking at his father—"Oh, hello, Dad. Good to see you."—utterly guileless, somewhat perplexed. It wasn't an intentional expression, of course; he wasn't even a week old.

They were like reflections of each other. Whenever they had a quiet moment, they just stared at each other. Silent. It was like they were trying to figure each other out. It was lovely to see; it made her smile every time. And then Severus would catch her standing in the doorway watching them watch each other, and he would pretend to glower at her before he handed Sebastian over to be fed.

It was exhausting being a mother. She was still sore in places that best went unmentioned, despite the potions Severus had produced for her. She suspected it was mostly a mental thing, expecting sensitivity. And she was lactating; that was different.

They had no schedule to speak of. They tried to sleep when it was dark and be awake when it was light, but that didn't necessarily pan out. Sebastian was up at all hours, needing to be fed or changed or burped or soothed. Whenever he woke up, they both got up because they didn't want to miss anything.

They made it into town once that first week to pick up groceries. Hermione carried Sebastian in a sling across her body, cooing and rocking the whole time. It took nearly three times as long as it had ever taken them to shop before, and Sebastian hadn't even been fussy.

\\\

By the time Sebastian was two months old, they weren't both jumping out of bed to see what he needed in the night. He was cute and they loved him, but Hermione could handle the midnight feeding by herself, and the 4 a.m. diaper change was all for Severus.

Meanwhile, the job Severus had got through their connection to Jane Atkins had flowered wonderfully. It had begun as an experimental brewer of sorts, trying out new and experimental potions in the garden shed lab and sending back reports. He still did that, but his reliability as a potioneer (they couldn't falsify the documentation for a Potions Mastery—the Australian Ministry had the means to verify it, and they still wanted to avoid notice) had led to supplemental projects brewing common potions that the company supplied for apothecary contracts.

"It's kind of like brewing for Hogwarts," Severus told her, "only I don't have to run around every night trying to keep the students from testing the contraceptive potions."

With Severus working from home, Hermione found a part-time job in town. Jane had offered to put in a good word for her, too, in the Australian magical community, but Hermione declined. She just wanted something that would bring in a little bit of extra money (because Severus was making enough to pay all their bills). She ended up working four mornings a week at a plant nursery, watering and pruning.

\\\

Sebastian—they called him Bast—was a sweet little boy with an easy giggle and a penchant for getting into places he wasn't supposed to be. Whenever he was discovered, he would give Severus that same guileless look—"Oh, hello, Dad. I was just standing here; I don't know _how_ those whatsits got broken." It was both endearing and annoying.

The boy's first word had been "no," and he'd employed it often and loudly. Second was "Mumma," quickly followed by "Da." He called himself "Bats" for a long time, often insisting "No! Bats do it, Mumma!" when Hermione tried to help him with anything. Oddly enough, he let Severus help with anything and everything. Hermione told him it made him infuriatingly smug, but Severus just shrugged.

He hadn't brewed her a dose of the usual contraceptive after Bast was born, and she hadn't asked him to. Her second pregnancy was harder than with Bast. It was twins, and she had Bast to chase around, and the part-time job. She took a lot of soothing baths, letting the water take the weight of the growing babies off her back and ease the pressure in her hips. Severus did what he could, brewing her this or that, and often resorting to foot or back rubs. Bast mostly just wanted to know what was taking so long; he wanted to meet his sisters.

Sofia Minerva and Elaine Poppy were identical down to the last freckle. Like their brother, they had Severus's coloring and Hermione's curls. Where Bast took after Severus in his long limbs, the girls looked to favor their mother.

Sofia had come into the world screaming her indignance with the lot of it. She flailed her little fists, narrowed her black eyes, and informed them in the only way she could that this cold existence was much lacking compared to the warm womb she'd just occupied. Elaine, as would come to be a trend, let her sister do the talking, but showed her support of the general position by harmonizing her screams pitched for perfect, ear-splitting cacophony.

"Too loud," Bast had said.

* * *

After the girls were born, Hermione quit her job at the nursery. Severus made more than enough brewing from his lab in the garden shed to cover their expenses, and time was crawling up on them.

When the children were napping or playing, Hermione researched. They wanted a spell to pull Voldemort's soul out of Harry's scar so that they could destroy it. The books were unpleasant, to say the least.

On Sunday afternoons, Hermione baked. She turned out loaves of crusty bread, dinner rolls, cookies. Whatever she felt like, or whatever was needed for the coming week's meal plan. During the week, she worked on the problem of Harry the Horcrux, or worked up arithmantic extrapolations trying to figure out other likely items and hiding places for Horcruxes.

Bast displayed all signs of inheriting Severus's nose. The girls went through a nasty month teething, always waking one another up with their discomfort.

\\\

The Dark Mark on Severus's arm had faded to a dull gray upon their arrival in 1990. It had been slowly darkening over the last year; they'd hardly noticed.

"Whatsit?" Sofia had asked one morning over breakfast, rubbing at her father's arm like she was trying to get some dirt off.

_It's back_, he'd thought, and she'd heard the horror echoing in his head.

"It's…" Severus had turned his arm back and forth in the light, looking at the tattoo there.

"Put your head between your knees," Hermione told him, picking Sofia up and putting her hand on the back of Severus's neck since he didn't seem to be functioning. "_Breathe_, Severus."

"What's wrong?" Bast was too perceptive for his own good.

"It's bad magic from a long time ago," Hermione said, fingers still on Severus's head. Sofia squirmed to be set down; she'd been holding her too tightly. Hermione was reluctant to let go, she had the urge to pick them all up and squeeze them and never let them go. She set Sofia down, though, and watched the toddler walk across the room to look at a picture book with her twin.

"Bad magic?" Bast asked, not allowing himself to be sidetracked by his sisters being cute.

"It's hard to explain."

"I made a mistake once when I was mad," Severus said, raising his head. He was pale, but he didn't look like he was going to vomit anymore.

"Like when I popped the ball?" His first episode of uncontrolled magic, when Elaine had been playing with his green ball and he hadn't wanted to share it. The ball had popped, scaring the bejesus out of Ellie; there had been tears all around.

"Kind of."

"Oh."

And with that, Bast had gone off to find his toys, curiosity satisfied.

"What are we going to tell them? _How_ are we going to tell them?" Hermione asked, sitting in the chair next to him. His fingers tightened around hers, though she couldn't remember when he'd taken her hand.

"I have no idea."

\\\

On June 24, 1995, the Mark didn't burn like it had before. He wasn't the one being Summoned, that was the _other_ him. The one at Hogwarts. The one who hadn't killed Dumbledore yet, hadn't met the Hermione who would be his wife.

They'd put the kids to bed early, not sure what to expect. It had only itched a bit, gone fully black, and that was it.

"I don't want to sell the house," Severus said into the dark after they'd gone to bed.

_I don't want to go back._

"I like the idea that we can come back here someday. Either live here or just visit. Whatever we want. I like the option."

"Me too."

He sighed. "I don't want to go back, either."

She turned onto her side so that she could look at his profile, vague in the darkness of their bedroom.

"What are we going to tell the kids? They're too little to understand any of it. It will just scare them."

"I have no idea."

Hermione reached out to him, grabbing the hand that had been on its way to rub at his Dark Mark, and holding on.

\\\

"Hermione?"

She sat back and scrubbed at her face, smiling wetly at her husband. "Sorry."

"What's wrong?"

She closed her eyes and sighed, twitching a thumb at the crumpled bits of parchment filling up her wastebasket.

"I spent the afternoon trying to draft a letter to the children. For when they're older. Just in case… in case—"

"Come here."

\\\

The spell, the one to separate the Horcrux from Harry, didn't work. No matter how many variables they changed, no matter how many iterations they tried, the arithmancy wouldn't balance. The only time they came close, the spell would have simply yanked both souls out of the body and more-or-less destroyed them. (They'd burned their notes on that one.)

"I hate to say it, but I think Dumbledore was right," Hermione said.

"I hate it when he's right," Severus grumbled, laying lengthwise on the couch in the library and propping his feet up on the arm rest. He was too tall for the couch, which was why it was in the library and not the living room.

"There is a chance—a staggeringly slim chance—that if the Dark Lord is the one to do it, and he uses the Killing Curse, it will kill the Horcrux before it kills Harry."

"A Horcrux tries to preserve its vessel," Severus said, following her thought to its conclusion.

"I think so, yes."

\\\

On Saturdays, they visited with the Atkinses. Sometimes they went into town, sometimes the Atkinses visited them in the woods. There was always good food and something interesting to talk about.

Jane and Ed knew something was wrong. Hermione got the impression that they thought the Blakes were having marital issues. Jane talked a lot about hardships they'd faced over the years, and Ed kept giving Severus openings to spill his guts.

\\\

"Mummy, why are you sad?" Bast asked her one afternoon out of the blue. Hermione had been sorting through the books she'd accumulated in the six years they'd been in Australia, thinking back on the projects that hadn't worked. (And the ones that had—Severus had come up with a clever spell for fog that, when she introduced her bluebell flames, created a sort of controlled lightening storm to surround and disable opponents.)

"Why do you think I'm sad, Honey?"

Bast frowned at her, a perfect imitation of Severus when he knew she was evading a question. It made her smile at him.

"Things are going to change soon," she told him, wondering how much she should tell him, when she should tell him. He was extremely clever, and extremely stubborn. But he was also five years old. "I'm going to miss things the way they are."

"Then leave them the way they are." The 'duh, Mum' was implied. She smiled at him, and made a mental note to talk to Severus about it all later. The children would have to be told something, especially Bast. The girls were too little, and would be too little, to understand. Bast couldn't understand the whole of it, but he deserved information about the bits that would affect him. Deserved to know where Mum and Dad had gone off to.

\\\

Hermione stood in the doorway, watching her family. It was a nightly ritual now. She was in charge of bath time—luckily not a hated activity in their house, unlike Jane had led her to expect—and Severus read them stories. Hermione cleaned things up in the bathroom and turned down their beds, and the four of them cuddled up on the overlarge couch in the toy room (originally the nursery).

Severus was in the middle, hair pulled back into a queue at the base of his neck, bare feet poking out of the cuffs of his jeans. He had Bast, his miniature doppelgänger, on one side, t-shirt and pajama shorts, hair already curling up again after his bath. The girls were on the other side, both wearing Severus's old t-shirts as nightgowns.

The stories went in cycles. Sofia picked out a book and Severus read to the twins while Bast had his bath. Then Ellie picked out a book while Sofia had her bath. Then Bast picked out a book while Ellie had her bath. Then they each picked out one more book and they read them together while Hermione got their beds ready. They mostly read the same books every night; Bast was all about Dr. Seuss, and his sisters followed his example.

"That is what's going to be the worst part," Hermione said after they'd said goodnight to all three of them and placed the usual alert charms on the bedrooms. They were downstairs, circulating the house and putting things to rights after the day. Bast had a puzzle all over the breakfast nook. Sofia's stuffed kneazle was prowling across a bookshelf.

"What is?" Severus asked, making his nightly round, checking the locks on the doors and windows, and closing the curtains.

"Not seeing them at the end of each day. Kissing them goodnight."

Hermione sighed, and Severus put his arms around her.

"We're surprisingly good at this, you know that?"

"Good at what?"

"Normal lives."

"We don't even fight about who takes the trash out."

"Nobody takes the trash out."

"Magic is a wonderful thing." Her voice cracked and she hid her tears against his collarbone. He held her tighter. "I think we made it worse."

"Made what worse?"

"Before, when it was just an idea, some hypothetical thing to want and to try to get to, it wasn't so bad. Now that we know what we're going to be missing… I don't know if I can do this."

"If that were true, you wouldn't be this sad," Severus said. "You're sad—hell, _I'm_ sad—because we know that we can compartmentalize. We can have this and hold it close and wish for it, and still put it in a box at the back of our minds and do what needs to be done. We've been making provisions for this since the beginning, and it's a hateful thing to plan to leave our children, and it makes us sad, and it makes us angry. But we're still going to do it because that is who Dumbledore made us to be."

"And we're going to win the war and survive the world in spite of it."

"What do you mean?"

"He made us, yes, but if he had it his way we probably would both give our lives for the cause. I'm not willing to do that. Not anymore. And I know you don't plan to die, either."

"You're right." He sounded resigned, but she could feel the steel in him when he said it.

* * *

**A/N: So, this is one of the chapters that was completely rewritten after my trip. Originally, Harry, Ron and Ginny came along, there were other marriages and babies… it was all incredibly convenient and completely served my desire for tying them all up in happily ever afters before the whole Battle of Hogwarts and people start dying thing. I'm still not completely happy with this chapter, and I'd especially love reviews on this one: What works, what clunks… I feel like things need to be fleshed out more, but I can't decide which bits, so it'd be lovely if you could tell me what you'd like to read more of (or less of).**

**Also, Google thinks I'm pregnant and moving to Australia based on my search history now. I've never had kids, and I've never been to Australia, and if you have any input about either topic feel free to share and I'll try to incorporate more real detail in a revised version of this chapter in the future…**

**Cheers!**

**—****M **


	34. Chapter Thirty-three

The children had been asleep for hours. Early, they'd driven out to Yabba Creek and spent the day swimming and playing. Sebastian had found the biggest spider in the universe and chased the twins around with it. Hermione had finished a novel.

Severus looked up; Hermione was across the table from him. There were papers spread out on the table between them, mostly covered in her arithmancy.

She'd lost weight, he realized with a frown. After the twins had been born, she'd been rounded and healthy; the stress of dread had worn all that away. (He'd gone through the same thing, he knew; he'd filled out when Bast was born and slowly lost it just as she had.) She was brown as a nut from all the time in the garden, and rosy with health. At least that hadn't faded. She did look tired, though.

"What do you think?" she asked, handing him the page she'd been working on and biting the cap of her pen.

"I think the trick will be finding something that can't be used against us if somebody else tries to use it."

"I had a thought about that…"

"But?"

"But you're not going to like it."

Severus sighed and set the paper aside, waiting for her idea. She shuffled her papers a bit, and then handed him another. It looked like a variation on a Protean Charm.

"You must be joking."

"I was thinking of the galleons we used for the DA."

"And the Dark Mark?"

"A little bit." He raised an eyebrow, but she ignored the implied not-quite-question and carried on. "Only in that it's on a body part, though. There isn't any further connection than that."

"You've tested it?"

"Only the theory."

"It looks solid to me."

"It should be."

"Our palms."

"Easy to look at without giving anything away. And the specificity you designed for that fog fits in to make it private."

"When did you want to do it?"

"You don't want a test run first?"

"It's not something that lends itself to testing."

"Right."

They stood and held up their hands, left palms up. He touched the tip of his wand to the center of her palm, the spot he liked to kiss. She did the same to hm. The incantation was simple but long, adding the specifics and restraints. Her magic tingled across his palm, and he could feel his skin prickle as the spell settled into place.

"Well then," she said when they finished, flexing her hand.

Severus Summoned one of the felt tip pens she had everywhere and tipped his hand away from her. He wrote the word "blueberries," and it faded from the black of the ink to a solid gray. He looked up in time to see her roll her eyes and grin. "Are hell to clean out of the carpets," she wrote back, the navy of her pen coming across closer to royal blue on his palm.

"Seems to work," he said, showing her his hand.

"Excellent." She showed him her hand, which appeared blank, as his must to her. "And now, _terminus_."

She looked at her palm and nodded, and he repeated the finishing on his palm. It went blank, as it was supposed to.

"Did it stick?" he asked, bringing pen to palm again. He wrote "Tomorrow is Friday."

"It tingles," she said, smirking and looking down at her hand. "Yes it is," she said.

They tried several variations of beginning and ending messages to be sure the spell had "stuck" properly. (It had.) The spell allowed for message and response; they'd be able to pass information back and forth. And the best part was that they were the only ones who could read their hands, so even if a message came through in the middle of dinner he wouldn't have to worry about Minerva catching sight of it.

It was an exciting spell from a theoretical perspective. It might even be possible that they could embed it into cards or something and sell them. They just had to survive the war first.

They returned to the table, flipping through papers, trying to decide where to focus next. Then the wards went off. They'd never actually done that before. They'd had plenty of alerts from the wards—Muggles redirected, the familiar ping when the Atkinses arrived for a visit—but never an actual alarm. It was like a claxon clanging at the back of his head, not painful but absolutely impossible to ignore.

"The Ministry?" Hermione asked, conjuring a hair elastic and pulling her hair back out of her way.

"You'd think they'd send more than one person, though."

"Maybe they only caught wind of the kids. Maybe they think they have an especially uppity Muggle-born."

"With wards?"

"They wouldn't have known about that before they sent just the one."

"Let's go."

They Disillusioned themselves and he rose into the sky once they cleared the doorway. Flight was usually exhilarating, but this time all he could feel was the rage. Someone had crossed the wards using secrecy charms, trying not to be noticed, likely intending harm. His _children_ were inside the wards.

_Hominum revelio_.

One light moving swiftly down the driveway; that would be Hermione. The other was farther off, creeping its way along the edge of the driveway. Hermione was headed straight for it.

He flew over silently, looking for a clue, but whoever it was had Disillusioned themselves, too. He hovered, waiting.

"_Finite_," Hermione said crisply. In a blink, Jane Atkins stood on the edge of the driveway. She wore her usual jeans and tank top, but she had her wand in one hand and a rolled up newspaper in the other. Hermione kept her wand trained on their friend, flicking, casting detection spells.

"Cora."

"What are you doing trying to sneak up on the house?" Hermione asked. She was doing a much better job of sounding neutral that he would've if he'd been the one talking. He hovered just behind Jane, wand clenched in his hand.

"I didn't want your _husband_ to catch me."

"Simon?"

"I don't think that's who he really is," she said, her voice now a whisper. She drew closer to Hermione, seemingly oblivious to the wand still pointed unerringly at her heart. "Have you seen the paper?"

"No."

They didn't get the paper.

"Look. Here." Jane stuck her wand in her back pocket and unfolded the paper. Severus easily slipped the wand away and up his sleeve while she was orienting the front page for Hermione's perusal. "Cora, I don't think Simon is who he says he is."

"So he looks vaguely like some bloke from back home. Why are you so worked up?"

"This isn't some bloke!" Jane said, forgetting herself and almost shouting. She looked around like he might pop out of the underbrush, and returned to whispering. "This is Severus Snape. And Simon looks _exactly_ like him. You'd be able to tell in better light."

Severus had completely lost track of the date. It was strange, since they'd been counting down to these events for so long. The other, younger version of himself had killed Dumbledore only a few days ago. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that the act had made international news—Albus Dumbledore stood out around the world, either for defeating Grindelwald or for his academic successes or for being the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

"So what?" Hermione asked.

"Cora…"

"You think Simon is really Severus Snape somehow, what, hiding out as my husband? The father of my children?" She was a very good liar. He'd almost forgotten. "Jane. We've lived here for almost seven years. How could he manage to have that sort of double-life? Be in two places at once?"

"Maybe he has a Time Turner." Jane sounded almost petulant, like she was defending her knee-jerk reaction even though she recognized that it was a bit ridiculous.

Hermione sighed, putting her wand away and rubbing her forehead. "Do you want to come in?"

"Is he in there?"

"Of course he's in there." Hermione put her fists on her hips. "The wards went off. He's with the children."

"I didn't wake them, did I?"

"No."

"He just sent you out here all by yourself?" There was suspicioun creeping back into her voice. Hermione huffed in annoyance.

"And I'm doing okay, aren't I?" she asked. Severus could see that she had an eyebrow raised, but he doubted Jane would know it. He had exceptionally good night vision, and he could practically hear her expressions in her tone of voice most of the time.

"I'm not actually an intruder."

"Jane," Hermione sighed.

_Still not the war_, he heard her think. _Relax._

"The resemblance is uncanny, I will give you that. Maybe they have a cousin in common or something. I'll ask him later. Right now, I'd like to go assure him that we're not being attacked and go to bed."

"Right," Jane said, hands fidgeting across her clothes nervously. "And I should get back before Ed gets nervous and calls the Aurors."

"Aurors?"

"If I didn't make it back in half an hour he was going to call the Aurors because Severus Snape was probably hiding out pretending to be our neighbor."

Hermione laughed, but it was a fake laugh. "That must have been some article."

"You should read it." Something in the way she said it made Severus think she hadn't entirely given up on the idea that he wasn't who he said he was. For a split second, he had half a mind to Obliviate her. But Ed knew about the article, too, and it would only make it more obvious that something wasn't right if she returned missing bits of time.

"Sure."

"Sorry, Cora. Really," Jane said. "We might've worked ourselves up about it, talking after dinner."

"Don't worry about it. I'm just glad it was you that set off the wards and not something dangerous."

Jane laughed, Hermione smiled, and Severus stuck Jane's wand back in her pocket. A few minutes later, Jane was gone and they were in the kitchen again.

"Do you think they called the Aurors?"

Even if the Aurors were called off at this point, they'd know something wasn't right. There were no witches or wizards—let alone a couple with three children—living in the area besides the Atkinses.

_This was why we wanted to live in the middle-of-nowhere Australia._

"We'll have to wait and find out."

\\\

They considered telling the Atkinses the truth for all of five minutes. The simple fact was that, if they told the Atkinses, they'd be involved. They'd probably want to help—they were nice like that. And if anything did go wrong with Australian authorities, they'd be implicated as well.

Therefore nobody mentioned the encounter on the driveway on Saturday when their families gathered for their usual dinner. Everybody sat and talked and ate and smiled, but there was that elephant in the room of what was not being said. Ursula, the Atkins' eldest, noticed it, but luckily she didn't say anything.

They were standing around in the kitchen, chatting and drinking coffee, the kids upstairs in the piano room by the sound of it, when the wards went off again. There was no sound for the Atkinses to hear, but they knew something had happened from the way he and Hermione both jerked.

"Did you tell the Aurors about your… suspicions?" Severus asked, setting aside his coffee and moving to the nearest window. There was just darkness outside, the light of the room reflected back at him. He flicked his wand, closing all the curtains in the house. Upstairs, one of the children yelped in surprise.

"What? No. Well, actually." Ed cleared his throat. Hermione set aside her coffee, too,and headed upstairs. "I mentioned the whole debacle to a friend at work. He doesn't live anywhere near here, though. What's wrong?"

"Five of them. Two on the driveway, three circling around," Hermione said. She'd pulled back her hair again, and her wand was in her fist.

"Don't tell me you really are Severus Snape!" Jane said. Her hands were trembling.

"I suggest you leave now, get the girls, go back home, stay out of it," Hermione said, putting herself between Severus and Jane. Ed had his head tipped to one side, considering something. Severus watched him. "If you're not here when they get here, you're not implicated in… whatever happens."

"We'll stay with the kids," Ed said before his wife could reply. Severus nodded.

"Alright."

"But—" Jane started, but Ed squeezed her arm and she stopped.

"Let's go."

* * *

Severus had worked out a number of useful spells over the years. Some of them were more practical than others. Some of them were more tinkering than useful.

Hermione went out the mudroom at the back of the house, Disillusioned herself, and activated the wards on the house itself. The wards shimmered vaguely, likely letting the Aurors know that they'd lost the element of surprise. That didn't matter so much.

Severus rose into the air, and Hermione swirled her wand, conjuring up his fog spell. It poured out of the tip of her wand, dense and boring enough until she added her bluebell flames from so long ago. The bluebell flames lit the fog blue-white, intense and flickering in patches and leaving curling swaths of gray-black shadows. The flames also generated electric sparks that would shock whoever she intended—anybody in the fog without a Dark Mark, for instance.

The nearest Auror, on the driveway in a thick bit of shadow, yelped when the bluebell lightning shocked him. There was a flash of spellfire—brilliant red glancing off white-violet. A flicker of orange sparks. A shout from the Auror. Then silence.

The fog curled further away from the house. When it hit the property line, the line of the wards, it began to curl up, spooling around backward like a wave when it encountered a barrier but in slow motion.

It was hard to keep track of the events in the fog. She couldn't see anything worth a damn. All she could do was listen, hearing a yelp from one direction when an Auror was shocked by the bluebell lightning, then a shout from another direction when Severus found one. Colored shadows refracted back to her through the fog.

And then, after a short eternity, Severus walked out of the fog. There were five Aurors floating after him, all unconscious.

Hermione flicked her wand, ending the spell. The little balls of bluebell flames disappeared, and the fog began to dissipate immediately.

Meanwhile, Severus arranged the Aurros along the front wall of the house. It was quick work with the two of them—Obliviate them, leave a false memory in place. The Aurors would remember the dark, splitting up once they reached the driveway, and approaching the house. They'd recall a boring encounter with a Muggle couple and their wizard son. Different thoughts were brought to the forefront to help gloss over the false memory—this one's preoccupation with an upcoming date, the other one's excitement for a vacation.

When they were finished, the Aurors left, walking down the driveway gazing into the middle distance as if they'd been Confunded.

"Alright?" she asked him when they'd felt the last of the Aurors cross the line of the wards.

"Fine. You?"

"Fine."

They went inside. It took half an hour to calm the kids down, not because they were scared but because the spellfire had looked like fireworks from their view of the windows and they wanted to stay up in case there were more. The Atkins girls realized something wasn't right, but luckily they kept quiet.

The children in bed, they all settled in for a nice, awkward silence around the breakfast nook. Hermione set out tea and everybody took their time assembling their drinks to they sat there and wondered where to start.

"I should be turning seventeen this September," Hermione finally said. The Atkinses exchanged looks. She wished they kept something stronger than the beer and wine they'd had with dinner in the house.

"What?"

"I had a Time Turner."

"That's absolutely ludicrous," Ed interrupted. Hermione just shrugged.

"So you're from the future?" Jane asked, skeptical.

"I suppose so, yes," Severus said.

"From this September," Hermione added.

"Why would you—" Ed began.

"You were about to have Bast," Jane said, cutting her husband off.

"Exactly," Hermione said. Those days seemed like a very long time ago, the utter panic flooding her system not quite able to overwhelm the happiness of the thought.

"How did you even manage it?" Jane asked. "That's not how Time Turners work… hours, not years."

"It was a prototype," Hermione said. "Dumbledore fiddled with it."

"You knew him?"

Hermione laughed (maybe a little bitterly). "Yes."

The silence was awkward.

"You really killed him?" Ed asked, looking at Severus.

"He asked me to."

"The papers didn't get the full story, as usual," Hermione said.

"You _killed_ him?" Jane asked.

"It wasn't that difficult," Severus snapped. "He was already dying. His cursed hand was killing him even after she amputated it. And he'd just swallowed down a vat of damned poison…"

It was probably a good sign that he was bitter about it instead of sad or guilt-ridden, but…

"You amputated his cursed hand?" Ed asked, turning to her.

"Er, yes. I'm a Healer."

"But you couldn't find work as a Healer here because you were trying to go unnoticed," Jane said, nodding to herself.

"Right."

"That does explain you a bit," Jane said, looking at Severus. "Your brewing at least. I talked to some of the people who submitted potions to you. They were always surprised when they realized you weren't a Master."

"Magical credentials are hard to forge," Hermione said. "And nearly impossible to do it without being noticed. We needed to be hidden for years; we had to be careful."

\\\

"What are you more scared about, Mummy—Daddy at the school by himself, or us with Granny and Granddad?"

Elaine asked the question, but the way all three of them went quiet was telling. Hermione raised an eyebrow at the little girl—how could she, they, already be four?—and tried to smile.

"I think you'll all be just fine. Your dad's pretty clever. And the three of you should be able to keep your grandparents in line."

Sofia giggled. Bast rolled his eyes. Ellie settled in closer to Hermione's hip, content to let the topic drop but not fooled for a minute.

"You don't need to worry, Darling," Hermione said softly, tucking Ellie's mad curls behind her ear. (Funny how tedious it was to deal with her own curls when it was so adorable on her children.) "We'll all be just fine."

"That's what Daddy said, too," Ellie said, plucking at a frayed thread on one of the pillows. "But he's quiet a lot at night now. And he looks at you funny sometimes."

"Funny?"

"Uh-huh."

And she was gone. Off to join her twin on the floor with a puzzle.

\\\

Severus was trying out a beard. She didn't know why. He'd gone into town with Ed one afternoon, there had been some male bonding or something, and the next day he hadn't shaved.

It was sort of a goatee and mustache with scruff everywhere else. It softened the planes of his face, made him look younger. And it tickled when he kissed her. (That wasn't a bad thing.) He looked more the part of hip university professor than ever, with the beard and his hair always tied back the way it was.

He was tan, too. Despite the solid block of time in his lab every day, his pallor had given over a bit. He—and the children, since they took after him more than her—was prone to sunburn still, usually winding up with him nose tipped pink and a sun-flush to his cheeks and forehead.

"You're staring."

"Am not."

"You are."

"I'm observing, not staring."

He raised an eyebrow; she smirked.

"I like your tan lines."

"Shut up."

He lay down again, curling up a bit so that he could trace a finger up and down her back. The ridges of the scars there had softened and evened out a bit in the past few years, but it was still not a smooth thing. He seemed to like it anyway.

"I'm going to miss this," he said quietly, resting his cheek in the dip of her back. He was looking away down toward her legs, his fingers now trailing along the back of her thigh instead of up and down her spine.

She hummed, trying not to move, not to disturb the peace. And then Severus shifted and the mood shifted with him—he kissed the side of her hip, and his fingers shifted from the back of her thigh to the inside of her leg, light and gentle. She hummed again, shifted, spreading her knees, lifting her hips.

"You are the best husband in the world," she moaned, grinning down at him when he rolled her over and slid his finger inside at the same moment he pressed a gentle kiss to her clit. His beard was… stimulating.

\\\

"This is the worst day possible for this," Hermione said, standing next to Severus outside his shed lab. The Atkinses had asked about it ages ago; neither of them had even thought about the date.

"It always is."

"You could go to Melbourne."

"Hell no. It's going to be awkward enough when they get here and we can distract them with the kids."

"It's not going to be awkward."

"I appreciate that you have to sit in the truck with them for several hours and you're putting a happy spin on it, but I know you remember sitting at the kitchen table with them in Edinburgh."

"Honestly, I'm hoping they're more concerned about the time travel than you and me."

"I'm fairly certain they're not going to be particularly thrilled with any part of the package."

"Pessimist."

"No: Realist."

She rolled her eyes and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head against his chest.

"I thought of something last night."

"I did, too."

It was the first night they would be apart since they'd arrived in Australia.

\\\

The drive was interminable. And then she sat in the airport for an extra hour because the flight had been delayed.

At last, her parents made it out of baggage claim. They dawdled in the gift shop, but didn't buy anything. They took a taxi to the hotel she'd booked them in, and went up to the room. Hermione followed, Disillusioned,

They went in, and Hermione stood outside the door for longer than she'd meant to. The whole thing was simple: Go in, Stupefy them, put their memories back in place, wake them up. They'd stay in the hotel for the night, then drive back to the house in the morning.

Finally, she shook herself out of it and knocked.

"Yes?" It was so neutral, so simply polite that it almost hurt. She hadn't seen her mother in seven years, and the woman didn't even blink.

"Sorry," Hermione said, turning and pointing to the door across the hall. "I've locked myself out. Can I borrow your phone to call my husband? He has the other key."

And she was in by means of reflexive politeness. Yes, the front desk could've sorted her out, but she'd asked them.

A few flicks of her wand, and her parents were lying comfortably on the bed. They could've been sleeping except for the odd, stiff way their heads rested not quite on the pillows.

It was a standard hotel room. Big bed, glossy dresser with a TV on it, ensuite bathroom with soaps in packaging.

She replaced their memories, lifted the charms keeping them still and asleep, then sat back and waited for them to come around. She sat in the overstuffed chair in the corner, staring at her hands. They hadn't changed much in the past seven years; she hadn't acquired any new scars, for one. A few of her old scars had even faded a bit.

Her dad chose that moment to sit up. He went from comatose-looking to blinking narrowly at her, then rubbed his forehead with his palm.

"You did it again, didn't you? Used the time gizmo."

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Almost seven years."

"Seven. Wow."

Her mother sat up, looking resigned and something else. Something Hermione couldn't put her finger on.

"Start talking," she said, her voice flat and controlled.

"I've been sitting here for ten minutes trying to think of where to start," Hermione said.

"Not even a week ago," her mum said, "we were at home going about life as normal. We thought you had only been gone long enough to get your Healer certification. We were going to invite you around for supper soon to catch up properly with everything you coulnd't put on paper.

"And then we had to make an escape from our home. It was destroyed by a man who you turned out to be married to. You're not only older than you're supposed to be, you're covered in scars. You weren't even _surprised_ when your husband walked through the door covered in blood. And then we were on a plane with no memory of any of that, and now we're in a different country."

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but her dad cut her off.

"Is the war over, then?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." He sighed. "What happened?"

"I got pregnant." It just slipped out, like when she'd told them Severus was her husband.

_That was _not_ how I meant to drop that particular bombshell_.

They were silent a moment, looking at her as if they expected her to pull a baby out of her purse and hold it up as proof. Hermione launched into her story before they could start asking questions or being angry. Or both.

"I didn't figure it out until September. At that point, we Turned back. We only meant to go back a couple years, buy ourselves some time. The Time Turner broke, though. We ended up in 1990.

"'90," her mum echoed.

"We came to Australia to hide until we caught up to ourselves. We have a house outside Kenilworth in Queensland."

"Why did you return our memories if the war isn't over?" her dad asked suspiciously.

"Because we have to go back, and the children absolutely cannot come with. It's not safe."

"_Children_?" her mum asked.

"Bast—Sebastian—is six and a half. The twins just turned four. Sofia and Elaine."

"Three of them," her dad said. Her mum had started weeping quietly.

Hermione took the small folio out of her satchel and handed it over. There were two dozen pictures in it, the kids over the years. They had several photo albums at home, but she'd wanted to bring a condensed version to begin. Ease them into the idea that seven years had really gone by for her and Severus—her parents could academically accept time travel easily enough, but it still boggled them. The folio was mostly focused on the kids, but there were pictures of the house, her and Severus, and them all together as a family.

Oddly uncomfortable, Hermione shifted in the overstuffed chair and gave them a moment to flip through the folio before she spoke again.

"After we sent you here, Severus went to Hogwarts and I went to the Burrow. He had to prepare for the school year, and I had things to do for the Order. Then the Ministry fell, and I had Harry and Ron in a safe house. We were working from there when I realized I was pregnant. Like I said, we Turned back farther than planned when the Time Turner broke."

"And now you have children that need looking after while the two of you go back," her father said.

"You can't go back!" her mom cried. Hermione shook her head.

"We have to. And we have a plan. If things fall into place the way we think—the way we hope—they will, the war will be over in less than a year."

"What if somebody comes looking for us?"

"Nobody will. You didn't even know who you were when you left the country, and you didn't use wizarding transportation. And they think you're dead; they don't even know they should be looking for you." Hermione ran her hands through her hair, feeling it frizz up as she did. Annoyed at herself for fidgeting, she pulled it back into a ponytail and planted her hands in her lap. "We came here years before the Dark Lord was back, and we will appear to have never left. They won't know to look for us, either."

"They won't know where to look if you stay."

"But they _will_ look. And Severus's Mark can be tracked. We'd be found eventually."

"Leave him."

It was logical; callous, but logical. Hermione opened her mouth, closed it. Then she got up and left the room, the door slamming behind her.

Her parents hadn't been able to watch her relationship with her husband evolve. They'd only met him the once, and that hadn't gone particularly well. He'd been her teacher, he'd been the one to destroy their house.

She made it to the end of the hallway, turned around, took a deep breath, and reentered the room. Her parents were exactly where she'd left them, sitting in silence.

"No," she said, glad her voice was calm. She didn't feel calm. She felt panicked. The idea of it made her physically ill, queasy. "No, I won't leave him."

They were silent. She wondered if they'd said anything to each other while she was walking down the hallway, running away from the idea in the room.

"The whole war is about people like me," she said, reiterating what she'd said to them at the flat in Edinburgh before she'd taken their memories. "It's _wrong_. So many things are wonderful with magic, but so many things are backwards. The two of us are placed to change it, to make it better, to _fix it_ for our children. And we're going to do it."

"Darling, I didn't—" her mum started, but Hermione held up a hand. (Her left hand; the one covered in scars, but also the one spelled so that she could communicate with Severus as long as she had a pen.)

"I know. I understand." Because she did. "This is my fight, and this is his fight, and he's my husband, and it just has to be how it is. I'm sorry. I know it's hard, and it's awful, and I swear I hate it just as much as you do. We just need to… carry on."

"What is it you want us to do?" her dad asked. Her parents were sitting on the end of the bed, facing her, holding hands. She hadn't noticed when they'd shifted; she'd been too busy trying to think of how to explain herself right.

"I need you to take care of my children," she said. Her voice cracked and she had to clear her throat before she could continue.

_How the hell does Molly Weasley make it through a day? She has more children to worry about than I do, and hers are directly involved in this shit._

"I need you to be… stability. I need to know that—" She cut herself off, biting her lip. All this had gone unsaid with Severus because they both knew it, and they could see it, feel it, in each others' thoughts. "I need to know that they're with people, family, who love them even though I'm not able to be there. And if one or both of us end up dead, I need to know that they won't be alone, that somebody can tell them this fucked up story someday so that they can know, so that they hopefully can understand…"

Her dad held her, stroking her hair like he had when she was small and had had a nightmare. She felt like she should be crying, but she wasn't. Her mum was, though; shoulders heaving with great sobs.

"We dreaded this, you know," her mother said through the tears. "When you got your letter. It was wonderful that there was a place for you, that you could fit somewhere, but we just knew that it would take you away from us."

"I'm right here, Mum," she said, her voice muffled by her father's collar.

"But you live in a different world. First you had to practice floating feathers for homework; now you've had a family by going back in time. Magic took you away. We didn't get to see any of it."

Hermione did cry, then. She tried to imagine what they could be feeling, imagining if Bast or the girls had walked up to her a decade older than she'd last seen them and with a spouse and children in tow.

She'd feel lost. She'd feel cheated. And she had the benefit of understanding magic, of seeing remarkable things every day. Her parents had had the normal lives she'd been so jealous of for their entire lives. Or at least until she'd come along.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize," her dad said, still stroking her hair. "It's not your fault."

"I volunteered. I agreed to do it."

"We _do_ know you, love," he said. "You could never have said no, just like you can't hide now."

"I don't regret it."

_Maybe that's why I'm sorry. I wouldn't change any choice because it led to these last few years in our little secluded bubble, Severus and me and the children pretending to have normal lives._

"Then you know it's right."

It was far from settled, she knew that. Some of the tension had gone out of the room, though.

\\\

She'd intended them to stay in the hotel for the night, and then drive back home in the morning. It was barely suppertime when they left, though. Her parents wanted to meet their grandchildren, and Hermione didn't like being away.

The drive wasn't as bad as she'd feared. They mostly talked about the children. Her parents looked through the folio again and again, asking about little details. The questions they asked—and the ones they didn't ask—about Severus made her suspect her dad at least (but probably her mum, too) planned to corner him in the near future.

It was late when they arrived, the gravel driveway crunching under the tires. Severus had modified the wards while she was gone; her parents didn't freak out about leaving the stove on at home or anything.

_Thank you_, she thought, mentally sighing. _I hadn't thought about that part 'til now._

They made it around the last little copse, and there was the overlarge house. It still felt too big most of the time. Too many bedrooms turned into a piano room or a play room, but still empty most of the time. It was comfortable, though. And it was home.

She parked on the side of the house, just within view of the garden around back that was split in two—one half for vegetables and herbs, the other for potions ingredients. Severus's lab, on the far side of the garden, was dark and locked up for the night.

"This is it," Hermione said lamely. Of course this was it. They'd seen the pictures. And why else would she stop the truck?

"It's lovely," her mum said. Hermione smirked at the reflexive politeness.

"Thank you."

They walked in the front door. The house was quiet, everybody asleep. The Atkins girls would be picked up in the morning- they'd be in the spare bedroom closest to the stairs. Bast had given her directions on transfiguring the perfect bunk beds. Then the piano room. Bast's bedroom next to that, her little boy probably flopped on his belly with the sheets falling off the bed. Sofia and Elaine in the next room, each of them with a foot poking out from beneath the covers. The study, with the sturdy desk, mostly used for storage since the library room downstairs had the better couch.

The house had too many rooms. Six bedrooms, when they only needed three. It was comfortable, especially after her crazy nesting period at the end of her pregnancy with Bast when she'd dragged Severus through furniture stores and made him think deep thoughts about curtains and rugs.

"Everybody will be asleep; they weren't expecting us until tomorrow afternoon."

Severus had probably woken when they crossed the wards, but he'd likely just stay in the bedroom and save the inevitable confrontation for daylight.

"The bathroom is here. And this is you." The biggest spare room. She and Severus had made it over last week, clearing out the puzzle collection to make space for the bed and dresser.

At the moment, the room looked a bit impersonal compared to the rest of the house. The bedspread was cream, the sheets pale blue. The walls were green. There were little bedside tables with matching lamps. The dresser was large, simple. The girls had picked flowers and put them in a tall cup on it.

"That's Bast, and that's the girls." She pointed to the respective rooms. "Severus and I are at the end of the hall." She tried to think of what else to say. "I should warn you Severus makes up spells in his downtime, and we've had a lot of downtime. You put laundry in your hamper, and it will be clean in the dresser by the end of the day. The dishes do themselves, but they don't put themselves away." The cabinets had never cooperated; they'd ended up with broken dishes all over the floor for a full week before Severus modified the spell. "Do you need anything?"

"Just don't expect us to be knocking on your door in the morning," her dad said with a surprisingly amiable smile. It took Hermione a moment to remember the awkard morning such a long time ago, but then she smiled back.

Severus was sitting on the edge of their bed in the dark. It was just light enough, with none of the curtains down, to see his raised eyebrow.

"Their idea," she said, closing the door gently behind her.

"I'm glad." He held out a hand and she took it, sitting down next to him and lacing their fingers together. "I couldn't sleep."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. They were quiet for awhile.

"How did it go?"

"It wasn't bad. We talked." She felt like she had to move, had to pace, but she didn't want to move away from him. "It's strange. I'd forgotten how recent it was for them, how fresh. It was only days ago for them—my dad was just out there joking about walking in on us."

"Is that a good sign?"

"I hope so." She sighed. "I think it will be more real for them in the morning when they see the kids. Really, I'm just glad they're taking it in stride for now."

"Maybe they're still in shock over the first round."

"Could be."

"It's going to be hard to go back."

"Yes."

"There's time yet," he said when they'd been quiet for awhile. "We have time."

"September 20."

"Right."

He let go of her hand and turned to face her, kissing her cheek before she could turn to look at him properly. He began undoing the buttons on the plaid shirt she was wearing.

"Come to bed, Mrs. Snape. We'll face it in the morning."

\\\

Breakfast was unusually chaotic. The Atkins girls were in school, racing against the clock to eat and gather their things before their Portkeys whisked them off for the day. (Boarding schools were popular in the UK, Europe and most of Asia, but Australia and the Americas had classes during daytime and sent students home every evening. It meant underage magic was handled differently, among other things. Schooling began at age seven; they got their wands at ten, so Ursula already had her wand but Amy didn't yet.) There was the addition of her parents to the morning routine, too.

It probably would've been awkward if it hadn't been so hectic. Making sure Amy had all her things in her bag, and getting Ursula to sit down and finish her toast were an easy distraction from the way her parents sat so quietly off to one side together. Bast watched them, his stare as intent as his father's ever was, entirely silently.

Then the girls were gone, and Severus set Bast up in the library with his math workbook. (He had a workbook for each subject, working his way through the basics of a Muggle homeschooling curriculm.) The twins grabbed their own workbooks (learning letters and numbers, matching colors and shapes) and joined him, tracing the dotted lines to and from letters, muttering the letter sounds as they went.

Hermione was quite proud of them. All three were ahead of schedule for their age level, at least according to all the books she'd been able to find on it and everything Severus knew of early education. Bast had practically taught himself to read, and the twins were eager to follow his example. They were clever and diligent—not particularly patient, but stubborn enough to make up for it.

"Routine?" her mum asked when it was just the three of them in the kitchen. Hermione put the dishes in the sink, almost smirking when she watched their faces as the bubbles rose up of their own accord, washing and rinsing quickly and efficiently, leaving the dishes next to the sink on the drying rack to drip.

"It works for us," she explained when the spell had finished with the first dish. "We get the school stuff out of the way, Severus gets a block of quiet time for work, and I get—"

"—Do _you_ work?"

"I don't have to." It might've come out a bit petulant, but that was only because her mum had sounded so affronted when she'd interrupted. "He makes enough to cover the expenses. And it gives me time for our research; it lets us all be home together."

She'd been running the arithmancy, solidifying the variables in their plan. It had taken months, but it was finally workable. At least it was hypothetically workable—there was always the chance they walked back into things, something changed immediately, and all their careful planning was for naught. She coulnd't think like that, though.

"So you keep the house?" her dad asked skeptically. Not only had he been married to her mother's feminist leanings for twenty (twenty-two?) years, he'd known Hermione fairly well, at least up until she'd begun using the Time Turner. And even then, the root of her hadn't changed. She'd be bored if all she was doing was keeping a house; she needed people to argue with, points to make, books to read.

Severus actually laughed aloud as he reentered the kitchen, earning himself a pair of harsh looks.

"Yes, I keep the house. And I help the kids with their workbooks. And I do my research." She rolled her eyes, watching Severus make his escape to his morning brewing. "Sometimes I help in the lab, too."

"Lab?" her dad asked at the same time her mum said, "Research?"

She wasn't about to explain the particulars of her research—it varied from soul-rending to arithmancy work so close to fortune-telling they'd surely laugh at her—so she pointed out the window. They looked just in time to see Severus disappear into the shed.

"We have a potions lab in the shed. He tests experimental potions for a private company—modifies or makes suggestions on modifications as needed. He also stocks a few apothecaries with the basics. He's good at it, so it's good money. And he's good at it, so it doesn't take him the whole day."

"Yet he sometimes needs your help?" her mum asked, almost condescending. Hermione wished they'd back off, though, intellectually, she knew why they found him so difficult to accept.

"He doesn't really _need_ it. It just makes things faster to have two sets of hands. Or I'll brew something simple for an apothecary order while he finishes an experiment, and then he's done working for the day in time for lunch."

Her mother chewed her lip. Her father stared hard at the shed. Hermione rolled her eyes, beginning to put away the breakfast dishes.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry I missed last week! I wish I had a decent excuse to give you, but, really, I just chose to go see Jurassic World (twice) instead of working on this when I planned to. I will try to make it up to you this week—after the next chapter, I have a giant block of text pre-written so that should be post-able much faster.**

**And also I've already seen Jurassic World now, so I shouldn't be so terribly tempted to run off and see it again. Hopefully.**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	35. Chapter Thirty-Four

"The Muggle Fights were a real thing, weren't they?" Hermione's father asked her. Severus had been on his way to join them in the kitchen, but he stopped where he was, out of sight around the corner in the mudroom.

"Yes." She sounded surprised.

"I hoped that most of what was in the paper wasn't real."

Hermione sighed. Severus heard her set something down and realized she was making bread just like it was any other Sunday. She'd be wearing the dark, ochre-red apron she'd bought just before Bast was born. She'd be covered in flour up to her elbows.

She was wonderful to kiss when she was a mess like that. She'd kiss him back, and raise her hands up around their ears like she wanted to touch him but didn't want to get him messy. It was a goal of his to kiss her so thoroughly that she forgot to worry about getting flour all over him.

"I'm worried about you, Hermione," Granger said, his voice softer, gentler than it had been before.

"You don't need to worry about me yet, Dad."

"I always worry about you, Darling."

"I know." It was her turn to be the quiet one.

"You're the only daughter I have. And you live in such a different world than I do."

"We live in the same house."

"That you pay the bills on by making and selling magic potions."

"Do you want to see the lab?" Hermione asked, and Severus knew that she'd noticed him eavesdropping.

"Why?"

"To make it real."

"It _is_ real, Hermione. I've been to Diagon Alley, I've received mail from an owl, and I watched you get well again last summer in the hospital after drinking your potions."

_Good gods, it had just been the last summer for the Grangers. For the rest of the world. Just one summer. And the Dark Lord had only been back for two years._

Granger sighed. "You just want me to be trapped in a room with him, don't you."

"I don't understand why you're so reluctant to like him."

"He is too old for you. He was your teacher. He was a Death Eater."

"He's only six years older than me. He was my teacher decades ago. He's a spy," Hermione said. Severus could hear her kneading the dough and wondered if she normally pounded that hard on it or if she was taking her emotions out. "He's the father of my children, and I love him."

"I can see that, Darling. I know."

"He's a good man."

"He's a dangerous man."

"I know lots of dangerous men. Hell, _I'm_ dangerous."

Uncomfortable silence descended, and Severus decided to make it worse by entering the room.

Granger cleared his throat. Hermione smiled at him. She was indeed covered in a liberal dusting of flour, her hands gunky with dough.

"Professor Snape," Granger said, nodding. His mother-in-law had been doing that to, referring to him by his title or surname. He couldn't tell if it was a dig or if they were trying to be polite while they got used to him.

"Dr. Granger," he replied, trying not to sound mocking, though he was mocking the man. The whole situation was absurd. Awkward, tense, never quite hostile. Absolutely absurd.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Hermione cried, throwing her messy hands up and spinning around to face them.

* * *

"Bast is a nosey little thing," Hermione said. She was sitting with her mother in the living room. The children were asleep. Severus was showing her dad the lab. "He's always getting into things. We actually had to ward him out of the library last year because he kept sneaking in to read when he was supposed to be sleeping."

"He sounds like you."

"Very much so, I suppose. He's with me in my stand against Quidditch, at least."

"I thought you liked Quidditch. You went to that World Cup thing."

"Yes. It's fine. It's fun. I'm not Quidditch-mad, though."

"Like your husband?" There was still that odd emphasis on 'husband,' and she couldn't decide if it was because her mum was uncomfortable with the idea of it, or if it was something else.

"I wouldn't say he's Quidditch-mad, but he is a fan. He has his referee's license."

"Oh, really?" That was polite interest if she'd ever heard it.

"Yes. He takes the twins to games whenever they ask him. Well—whenever _Sofia_ asks him. She's the official spokestwin. Ellie is the quiet one."

"I can't tell them apart in any of these pictures." They'd pulled out all the photo albums, going through memories. Her mum had gotten suspiciously teary about not being around for the pregnancies and births. Hermione hadn't been able to think of a thing to say, since there wasn't anything to be done about it now.

"It's hard just by looking. And they like wearing the same thing just to confuse people. Yet they get annoyed when we make a mistake." Hermione rolled her eyes. "The moment they start talking, you know which is which."

"Sofia's the talkative one?"

"I wouldn't say Elaine isn't talkative; it's just that when you ask the both of them a question, Sofia is the one that answers it."

"And Bast doesn't like Quidditch."

"Not a jot. He and I stay home and play in the garden, or read books, or bake cookies when Severus takes the girls to a game."

"A proper mama's boy."

"Not at all, actually." Hermione had to laugh. "I can't get him to do anything without a fuss—bathtime, bedtime, even meals. He will eat beets for his father, though. _Beets._"

"I don't like beets, either."

"Well neither do I, but that's not the point."

They laughed together, and Hermione felt a bit of the tension between them ease away. She hoped it was going as well with Severus and her dad.

They turned the page. Balloons at birthdays, a daytrip to Sydney Harbor, their one semi-disastrous family hike, Bast's penchant to find the biggest spiders in the universe and chase his sisters with them. It was all there.

\\\

"I want you to teach me to fly."

"I beg your pardon?" Severus looked up from the morning paper, eyebrows raised.

"I want you to teach me to fly," she repeated.

"You hate heights."

Her parents sat at the other end of the breakfast nook, watching them instead of eating breakfast.

"Maybe I'll hate them less if I know that I can't fall from them."

_It will probably come in handy._

_But you _hate_ heights._

"Please?"

"If you really want to."

"Yes."

She flicked her wand, sending their plates and toast crumbs to the sink.

"What, now?"

"Why not?"

"Alright."

They went out through the mudroom, going to the far side of the garden. Her parents trailed after, setting aside the cups of tea they'd carried out after they'd cleared the Cooling Charms on the house. The kids hurried out, too, taking up position on the back steps to watch.

"Well?" She stood with her feet spread, her fingers clenched around her wand.

Severus shook his head ruefully, tying his hair back in its usual queue and rolling his shoulders. Flying came as easily to him on a broomstick as anything else.

"Ideally, we'd start on the roof."

Panic shot through her. It wasn't a rational fear. She knew a dozen spells that could slow or stop a fall, and she knew full well that Severus wouldn't let her get hurt. The idea of _flying_ still set her blood pumping, her mind racing. Her skin crawled, remembering the cold air rushing past when she'd ridden Buckbeak and the thestral.

"Sit down, Hermione."

"I'm fine."

"Yes, of course you are."

She scowled at him, but let him guide her down to sit on the ground. He sat facing her.

"Keep your elbows in, and your hold onto your knees when you take off."

"What?"

"_Volare_," he said, pointing his wand at the ground. He shot three feet into the air holding his cross-legged position. He levitated for a moment, then settled back onto the grass in front of her.

Hermione cleared her throat, tucked in her elbows, pointed her wand at the ground, and said, "_Volare_."

Gravity vanished for the briefest of moments, and then she was flying across the lawn backwards. She entirely forgot about keeping her elbows in or holding onto her knees, flailing about for a moment until she caught a foot on the ground and began tumbling. She landed in a heap. She groaned, Severus laughed. Upon hearing him laughing, the kids knew it was okay to laugh and fell all over each other at her expense.

"Elbows in, remember?" he said, appearing in front of her. She'd felt his Cushioning Charm when she'd hit the ground, but that didn't mean she felt any less ridiculous.

"Bastard," she grumbled, letting him help her up.

"You're the one who wanted to learn how to fly."

"Right."

"Do it again, then."

Hermione returned to her original spot on the grass, crossed her legs, tucked her elbows, and looked up at her husband. "You catch me before I go arse over teakettle this time. You've made your point."

"Point?"

She glared at him.

"I'll catch you."

She took a deep breath, tucked her elbows in a little closer, and pointed her wand at the ground again. "_Volare_."

She jerked off the ground, sticking her legs out automatically for balance when she felt herself begin to go backwards. The kick overcompensated, and she tumbled forward. She would've landed on her face if Severus hadn't grabbed her.

"Stop laughing at me."

"I'm not laughing at you."

"Not _out loud_."

"Maybe you should pay attention to what's in your own head instead of mine. That might help you figure out flying."

The children continued to giggle uproariously. Her parents had settled in the lawn chairs, looking like they were caught somewhere between nervous and amused.

Hermioner harrumphed and sat on the ground again. She tried again with similar results.

"Why do you want to fly, anyway, Mum?" Bast asked.

"You hate heights," Sofia said. Ellie blinked owlishly, waiting for the response.

"_Volare_," Hermione said instead of answering. Severus had been watching the children instead of her, so she ended up off kilter again, blasting back from him before he could physically grab her.

"Let's try something," he said, urging her to sit again. Hermione's knees were quaking a bit, making it easy to crumple back down on the grass, cross her legs, and tuck her elbows. "_Petrificus totalus_."

_Well, great_, she thought. _Now I'm going to break my nose._

"You're not going to break your nose."

_I am._

"The spell works just as well nonverbally."

She would've glared if she could've moved her face. Instead, she Occluded off the panic, reminded herself that this ludicrous endeavor had been her idea, and cast the spell.

For a moment, she hovered. She wasn't able to flinch or overbalance herself.

"She's doing it!" Bast shouted.

"_Finite incantatum_," Severus murmuered, cancelling his spell holding her still. She clenched her wand tighter, tensing up. The more tense she was, the higher she rose in the air. The higher she rose in the air, the tenser she got.

"Cool!" Sofia said. Hermione glanced over and saw that her daughter had stood up and was watching her with avid interest. She also realized how high she'd floated up off the ground, and her heart thunked hollowly in her chest.

"Severus," she asked, aiming for calm but knowing she missed the mark. It was hard to sound calm through clenched teeth. "How do I come back down?"

"Just relax."

"Not happening."

"You're doing really well."

There were a slew of very impolite things she wanted to tell her husband just then. Words she didn't want her kids to repeat. Physically impractical actions she'd like to suggest he try out with various body parts.

"Okay…" she muttered. "Okay…"

"Lean a bit to your left," Severus suggested. He sounded a lot farther down than he had when he'd last spoken, but she didn't dare look.

Hermione tried to relax and it didn't work, so she tried the leaning idea. She edged ever so slightly over her left knee, and she began drifting in that direction. When she stopped leaning, she stopped drifting. She tried again, and it wasn't so bad… and then the wind picked up. A good gust from behind her, pushing her forward.

She flailed, limbs going every which way. Her flight path—or fall path, at least—seemed to follow her center of gravity. That knowledge didn't help much. She fell straight into another of Severus's Cushioning Charms, landing on her shoulder and turning it into a roll, ending on her feet. Her kids laughed and clapped.

"See—" Severus began, but she hit him with a nonverbal _Levicorpus_. The children roared with laughter all over again. Severus crossed his arms and glared at her, swinging slightly in the wind. "Very amusing."

_I thought so_.

She flicked her wand, lifting the ankle she had hold of through the spell higher into the air. When his head was dangling level with hers, she grabbed him by the ears and kissed him.

"Ack," Bast said, scowling at them. Ellie put her elbow in his ribs. Hermione ignored the byplay at let Severus loose.

"Come on," Severus said, leading her by the hand back to her original spot on the grass. "Again."

"You're a single-minded taskmaster."

"You wanted to learn how to fly."

_I wanted to distract us all from the awkwardness of my grouchy parents._

_And you succeeded wonderfully._

_I hate heights_.

He pecked her on the cheek, sat down in front of her, and demonstrated the spell again.

\\\

By lunchtime, Hermione had mastered the spell well enough that she didn't go flying across the yard when she cast it without first having _Petrificus totalus_ cast on her. She'd perfected hovering, and could manage a slow drift and even sometimes change directions.

Severus spent most of that time flying circles around her, sometimes literally. The children sat on his back like a magic carpet and he drifted around the yard with them while she acquired bruises from tumbling back down onto the grass.

Her parents made lunch. That was enough to call the afternoon a success.

* * *

Severus put the cork in the last vial and set it on the rack with the others. It was his last batch of potions to send in for the apothecary. It was a strange thought; the brewing schedule had become so routine.

The owl would be along in the morning to pick up the last of them, and that would be it. They were counting their days in Australia now, not weeks or months or years.

He'd woken six times the night before in a cold sweat. He hadn't woken Hermione; he hadn't had to. She hadn't slept a wink.

Severus pushed aside the thoughts, yearning for a cup of tea. He flicked his wand, setting his cauldron and other supplies to washing themselves, and closed the door behind him. It was a hot night, the sort with electricity in the air. There was a storm coming, ready to break over them with rain and thunder. That would almost be a nice change of pace, the weather matching their moods.

In the house, the close silence of the yard was broken by the quiet sound of the piano. That would be Bast, not Hermione. She'd taught him at his request, and he'd taken to it like a duck to water. The girls liked to listen to it, and Ellie had put a token effort into learning to play, but they were still young for it. (Bast was probably still young for it, too, but he'd almost taught _himself _to read by the time he was four and a half; once he decided he was going to figure something out, he did.)

When he reached the piano room—one of the smaller bedrooms upstairs—he saw that Bast was sitting at the bench with Elaine. Bast was showing her the simple pattern for one part of a duet, trying to get her to play it while he layed the other part. They giggled quietly together every time either of them made a mistake.

Severus watched for a long moment, not wanting to disturb them but not willing to walk away. He didn't want to get caught lingering, though. He walked down to the hall to the nursery—more of a playroom now, since all of them were out of nappies—and wasn't surprised to find Sofia with her nose in a book. An overlarge cardboard-bound easy reader with lots of pictures and words that rhymed; a hand-me-down from the Atkins girls.

Not wanting to disturb her, either, Severus went the rest of the way down the hall and into his bedroom. Hermione sat in the chair by the window, watching the rain on the glass.

Melancholy settled over him. The house smelled of the bread Hermione had baked that weekend. It was full of the soft sound of Bast and Elaine on the piano, and the patter of the rain on the roof. It was a big house, but it was comfortable, cozy, in their bedroom. Hermione sat there, skin tanned from years in the garden, wearing her cotton pajama bottoms and a soft t-shirt, smiling at him.

"It's going to be a big one," he said, because he had to say something.

"Good. We could use the rain."

When he turned around after putting his own pajamas on, she'd closed the curtains and was sitting on the end of the bed picking at a loose thread in the blanket they kept there. He sat next to her and held her hand until it was time to go put the kids to bed.

\\\

The next morning, he went downstairs for breakfast and found the Grangers sitting at the breakfast nook with Elaine between them. They had the photo albums spread out on the table, and Ellie was telling them about every photo.

"This was when Bast was just born. I wasn't there, but I think he slept a lot." She pointed at the picture of Bast asleep on Severus's shoulder. There were many variations of that photo—neither of them had wanted to put him down, so they'd held him while he slept whenever they could. "And _this_—hi, Dad—was when me an' Sofia were born. Bast says we were loud."

Severus listened, putting his bread in the toaster and searching out the raspberry jam. He was glad the kids seemed to be getting along with their grandparents even if their grandparents were only polite to him.

"And _this_ is Mum and Dad with me an' Sofia at the beach. It's crooked 'cause Bast took the picture."


	36. Chapter Thirty-Five

**I posted the last chapter before work, came home and opened up my email and you 'd already reviewed. You are excellent. Have another chapter:**

* * *

It was September again, nearly October. It was a Saturday.

They hadn't slept in what felt like weeks without the aid of a potion. They hadn't bothered with potions the last night, just lying in the dark and holding each other.

_I have never dreaded something so much in my life_, Severus thought, knowing she'd hear. They were eating breakfast, sitting across from each other. The children were still asleep, as were the Grangers. Severus and his wife had always been early risers. _Not even killing Dumbledore_.

Hermione reached across the table and tangled her fingers in his.

_It seems wrong to have tasted paradise_. Her thought. Echoing his, as always.

_Now we know what we're missing_.

Hermione nodded, looking away. He squeezed her hand, then brought it to his lips, turning it so that he could kiss the center of her palm.

"Morning Mum," Elaine said, wandering into the kichen. Her hair was a curly black tangle. "Morning Dad."

"Good morning, Darling," Hermione said, pulling the little girl onto her lap. The twins were just beginning to be too big for carrying around, but they hadn't outgrown cuddling yet. (Neither had Bast, for that matter.) "How did you sleep?"

She shrugged as if the question didn't make sense. It probably didn't, of course; she was too young to do anything but sleep like a rock.

Severus stood and assembled breakfast for his youngest. Oatmeal with apples and raisins and cinnamon. By the time the oats were ready, Elaine had satisfied her need for a bit of morning closeness with her mum. He kissed the top of her head as he set the bowl in front of her and poured her a cup of juice. She ignored him completely in favor of the food. Hermione smiled at him.

The routine was the same when Sofia joined them twenty minutes later, but she liked honey and milk in her oatmeal.

Severus took the seat next to Hermione, pulling her close to his side while the girls ate. They were four, halfway to five. His coloring and her curls, like their brother. Sofia was twelve minutes older than her sister.

Bast arrived in the kitchen just as the girls were finishing their oatmeal. He was lean and lanky, even at almost-seven. He had Severus's nose, the poor boy, but he didn't seem to notice (yet, anyway). Black eyes, a mop of curly hair. His face was mobile, his eyes often shone with clever thoughts. He was the eldest; he looked after his sisters.

Severus entertained strange fantasies of these children, _his_ children, walking the halls of Hogwarts together years from now. Bast would be the father-hen, herding the girls around outside classes, badgering them to do homework, sending them off to bed. Like his mother. The twins would be together, playing Exploding Snap, Sofia chatting Elaine's ears off. They'd all sit together in the Great Hall, Elaine occasionally digging her elbow into Sofia's ribs when her mouth ran away with her.

None of that was likely to happen, of course. The war would likely shut Hogwarts down within the year. Every day that passed made parents less likely to send their children back after Christmas, let alone send them back for a new school year. According to Hermione's arithmancy, if they didn't do something to end open hostilities, Hogwarts would close within the next two years.

Hermione rubbed his back gently, shaking him from his thoughts. She couldn't read his mind from next to him, but she didn't have to use Legilimency to know what he was thinking.

The day crawled on. They were nine hours ahead of Scotland. They would Portkey to Edinburgh after dinner so that they'd arrive before breakfast.

They'd already packed what they'd had with them when they'd arrived (and a handful of other useful things). The house had new layers of protective wards. The Grangers had their false Muggle paperwork labeling them the Wilkinses, the documents for the children, the paperwork for the Muggle officials and the bank.

Severus sighed and stood, wandering into the library. His notebooks were sitting just where he'd left them, and he straightened their corners to line up with the edge of the shelf. He'd written to his children, putting everything he could think of down for them. Just in case.

His father-in-law found him there not so much time later. Sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at his feet.

"I didn't like you very much when I first met you."

"That's generally my reception," Severus told his feet. He and Dell Granger had a tentative sort of relationship. They could sense that if they all came out of the war, they could be friends in the future. If anything happened, though, there were no guarantees.

"You were her teacher." Dell sat down next to him, so Severus was obliged to sit up and actually look at him. "And you blew up our house."

"I didn't take particular pleasure in blowing up your house."

Dell scowled, shifted. Hermione had his eyes.

"What I mean to say," Dell said, pressing on, "is that I didn't like you much when I met you, but I've changed my mind."

_That'll make Christmases less awkward in the future. If there are Christmases in the future._

"Oh."

"Yeah."

They sat there, slightly awkward. It occurred to Severus that he had no idea what sort of conversations people had with their fathers-in-law. The cliché, you're-not-good-enough-for-her was kind of a moot point, since they'd been married for eight years, almost nine, and they had three children. And they hadn't managed to mess up the children, either.

"Sorry about Monica."

"Don't be."

"Well, I am. She's decided to take out her frustration with the situation on you, and you don't deserve it."

Severus frowned and cleared his throat, again not sure what to say.

"Dad?" Elaine said, saving him from the moment. She stood in the doorway, fists on her hips.

"Yes?"

"Bast caught a spider. He put it in my room."

"It's nice that he shares things with you."

"_Dad_! It's gross! It's in a big glass jar an' he says he's going to leave it there 'til it _dies_ an' then give it to you for potions!"

A girly shriek from upstairs (followed by a boyish cackle) meant that Sofia had found the spider, too.

\\\

It was over in a blink. They all sat down to dinner, picking at their food. Mrs. Granger didn't help things by sniveling now and again, alternating that with glaring at him.

"Do you hafta go?" Ellie asked after the dishes had been set to washing themselves in the sink.

Hermione burst into tears. Severus's breath hitched.

They said "I love you," and "be good for your grandparents" and "I will miss you every day."

Their Portkey was an old knitting needle of Hermione's that had lost its match long ago. They each held an end, and then they were spinning away. They arrived at the Apparition point outside their flat in Edinburgh. His guts were churning, but it had very little to do with the international travel.

They walked down the hall, letting themselves into the flat. It was force of habit.

The door had barely closed behind them when he started shaking. He didn't realize he was crying until Hermione said, "Oh, Severus," sympathy written on her face, and then burst into tears herself.

* * *

It was harder than she'd thought it would be.

She'd known it would be hard. Not only returning to England, returning to the cold of breeding Dementors and the generally oppressive atmosphere of the conflict all around, but leaving the children behind.

Part of her—the logical part—knew that they were safe in Australia. She knew that her parents would take good care of them. She knew that they were good kids, and they loved each other, and they knew they were loved, and…

Hermione sniffled. She tried to breathe deep and look up at the ceiling and will the tears away, but there was nothing for it. She missed her children.

\\\

"Okay," Severus kept saying. "Okay."

They'd Apparated to his rooms at Hogwarts after their younger selves had made their way to the Shrieking Shack. They'd tried to make light, joking about the bout of misery their other selves had in store from the about-to-malfunction Time Turmer. It had backfired; they'd both got to thinking about all the wonderful things their younger selves were about ot begin.

Hermione stood up, brushing the tears off her cheeks. She crossed to his wardrobe, straightening his voluminous black teaching robes on their hanger.

"They're still warm," she said, surprised even though she shouldn't have been. The robes just didn't seem suited to Severus, which was odd because they'd once been so synonymous with him. She felt out of place in England, though. Wrong. She belonged in Australia with her children, not in the middle of a war about to throw herself into the fight.

Severus stood next to her, fingering the collar. She leaned into him, crying again. After a moment, she sniffed wetly and took her pocket watch out.

"It's been four minutes since we Turned back in the Shack."

Severus ran his fingertips along the back of her neck. There was still a pink line where the overheated chain on the Time Turner had burnt her—he had an identical line on the back of his neck. They'd never healed them after arriving in Australia; there had been too many other things to do.

Severus kissed her temple and stepped back, taking a deep, steadying breath. She could feel the air cooling around him as he called up his Occlumency shields, and she followed his cue. She put everything in a box and set it at the very back corner of her mind. It was the darkest, most closely kept part of her mind; nobody would find it. It was too precious. But she couldn't keep it with her at the forefront, or she wouldn't be able to do what needed to be done. And if she didn't take action, she wouldn't be able to go back to Australia.

"Okay," she said, like Severus had been muttering before.

She went and sat on the edge of the tub while he shaved. She wasn't in a good enough mood to tease him when the skin hidden beneath his beard was paler than the rest of his face. It didn't matter anyway—it only took a few seconds for a potion to leech away the tan altogether.

He looked strangely unlike himself. Pale, clean-shaven. (He'd only had the beard a month, but she'd gotten used to his face with it.) And his hair was down for the first time in an age, long and loose around his shoulders, hiding bits of his expression when he moved his head.

She didn't take the potion; she left seven years' worth of Australian sunshine intact. In fact, she'd gotten a haircut only days before, clipping the curls back to shoulder length. It made her head feel lighter, and it made her look a bit closer to her actual age.

All the arithmancy had told them it would end better if Harry and Ron knew she was keeping secrets. They didn't need to know the secrets, just that they existed.

She'd tell Ron more than Harry, and she'd tell him why. He had a strategic mind—the arithmancy told her that would be useful.

She was oppressively aware that she was now almost exactly twenty years older than Harry and Ron. She'd just turned thirty-seven. They'd just turned seventeen. They were closer to Bast's age than hers.

\\\

They lingered. They couldn't help it.

And then it was over. She Disapparated to the safe house.

"You did it again." It was the first thing Ron said to her, and it was a statement not a question. Before she could confirm or deny it, he asked, "How long?"

"Seven years."

"_What_?"

"I broke my Time Turner. I only meant to go back a few years. I had to take care of something." An infant or three, but it was best he didn't know that.

She expected the casual flippancy of her own thought to hurt, but the pain didn't come. Her Occlumency, magically-reinforced mental compartmentalization, held.

"Seven years," Ron repeated, dumbstruck.

"It was a mistake." But she didn't regret it in the least. "I put the time to good use. Where's Harry? We have a lot to talk about."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you again for the reviews. You made my night. (I'm still working my old retail job evenings and weekends, and tonight was an off sort of night.)**

**Cheers!**

**—M**


	37. Chapter Thirty-Six

Harry wasn't speaking to her. It wasn't surprising, really. That was how he and Ron had always responded—ignoring her, not speaking to her. (She'd had it from Ron more than Harry.) It got her thinking about Hagrid, actually. She'd spent a large chunk of time with Hagrid when Ron had thought Crookshanks ate Scabbers, and his anger had meant neither he nor Harry had anything to do with her.

It was juvenile and obnoxious, but not unexpected. The only thing she was worried about was that he'd try to ditch her. The arithmancy said there was a forty-five percent chance he'd try to leave. If he did that, he'd realize she'd warded him in, (Because if he left, Apparated, she might never be able to track him down.) Then he'd never trust her, the majority of their plans would start falling apart, and she'd probably have to have Severus stage an attack on the safe house to begin to move them forward. (And that plan was positively Dumbledore-worthy, and she hated it.)

They went on for a week like that. Ron was quiet, not surly but not friendly. Harry woulnd't look at her, let alone speak to her. She cooked, and they took their plates to a different room to eat. It was insulting, but she'd decided to wait it out.

And then Ron left.

He and Harry had had an argument. Not about her, surprisingly. Ron said, "You know what?" and then he grabbed his bag and stomped out the front door. She'd gotten as far as the front room when they heard him Disapparate.

\\\

"What now?" Harry asked. Ron had been gone for an hour, and Harry had spent that time locked in the room they'd been sharing. Hermione had her equations spread out on the kitchen table, reworking, factoring it all in.

"Do you know where he went?" she asked, not looking up from her numbers. She wanted to go after Ron. Harry shook his head, though. She sighed, leaning back and finally look at him properly. He looked tired, sad. Older. "Then we have to move. If they get him, they'll be able to get back here, and that can't happen."

"What if he comes back?"

"It's been an hour."

"Hermione…"

"We'll give him until eight." Maybe he'd come back when he was hungry for dinner. "Then we go. I'll leave the wards open to him. If he comes back, he'll have a place to stay."

"We can't just—" he started.

"We have to," she said, cutting him off. He frowned.

"But—"

"Harry," she said, taking a calming breath. Most of her plans had incorporated Ron. There was so much to do. "We just have to."

\\\

It was after ten. They sat in the front room, not speaking; there was nothing to say. They were both hoping Ron would turn up, slouchy and defensive. It was raining, pouring. The rain _plunk, plunk, plunk_ed on the roof noisily, harder and heavier every moment.

"What did you argue about?" Hermione asked. She hadn't wanted to ask, because she'd suspected it was about her, but the more she thought about it the less likely that seemed to be the answer. Ron had acted a bit odd since she'd returned, but not towards her.

"This wasn't what he'd expected," Harry said, answering her more quickly than she'd thought he would.

"What do you mean?"

"He said he thought I knew what I was doing. He thought Dumbledore had told me what to do."

"He did."

"Yeah, but he didn't tell me how to do it, really, did he?"

"No." She had to agree with him there. She'd never been able to decide if Dumbledore had been so hands-off with Harry because he was a Horcrux and the headmaster didn't want Harry to have details in case the Dark Lord looked into his mind, or if that was just Dumbledore's way. He'd sent her off on enough vague exploration missions, after all.

"Is that what you two were talking about, then?" Harry asked, suddenly surly. She raised an inquiring eyebrow. "D'you think I hadn't noticed the two of you whispering behind my back?"

"I told you about that," Hermione said, her voice as neutral as she could make it. "The arithmancy gave us better odds if you didn't know all the details."

"Did the arithmancy predict Ron leaving?" Harry sneered.

"No."

"Fat lot of good it does, then."

Harry pulled the locket out of his pocket, charred black from the Fiendfyre she'd used to detroy the Horcrux in it what felt like a lifetime ago now. It had only been a few weeks for him—right after they'd retrieved it from the Ministry, before she'd realized she was pregnant. He turned it over in his hands, picking at a bit of something on the chain, shedding black flakes onto the rug.

\\\

They were silent the next morning. They were in a new place, a tiny flat in an unfriendly Muggle neighborhood. It was an Order safe house, not one of the places Dumbledore had arranged just for her. She was half hoping that the Order would try to contact them; that Ron would be found and returned like a misplaced coat.

Harry paced and brooded. He asked her questions, and then he brooded on her answers.

For her part, she worked on her arithmancy, and she made sure Harry ate.

* * *

He hadn't been back at Hogwarts for a week yet when the Weasley girl, Longbottom, and a few others from Hermione's "Dumbledore's Army" band took it upon themselves to steal Gryffindor's sword. It was the dead of night, but he hadn't been sleeping—his rooms didn't smell right, and it had been putting him off.

The attempted theft was a convenient excuse to send a replica to the Lestrange vault, which put him in good standing with the deranged witch and her husband (always a useful thing). He made a mistake, though: He sent them to Hagrid for detention.

Longbottom had practically been spitting when he'd declared they'd serve a week of detentions with Professor Hagrid for their pathetic attempt. Hagrid wasn't fooled, though. He found himself alone with the half-giant in the entrance hall later that week, the silence different than he was used to. He'd become accustomed to the glaring, the simmering anger.

_He knows_, Severus realized, experiencing a mad desire to tell the man he'd named his son after him.

He couldn't even bring himself to modify Hagrid's memory to cover his own tracks.

\\\

He realized early in October that his rooms didn't smell like Hermione, and that was what was throwing him off. The vanilla of her conditioner in the bathroom, the scent of her on the pillow next to his. The weekends didn't fill the space with the scent of baking bread, the evenings weren't filled with Bast's piano experiments or Sofia's turning pages.

Severus lay in bed at night, mind empty, entirely unable to sleep.

* * *

_Still no sign of Ron_, Hermione wrote on her palm, watching the ink fade. She had a red pen this time; it paled to a dark pink, looking like a strange old scar among the others on her hand.

_No report of him from the Death Eaters, as far as I'm aware_, Severus wrote back a moment later. She imagined he was in his office, and that Dumbledore's portrait was trying to read the notes and failing. It made her almost smile.

_Potter has a ten-thousan-galleon price on his head. Just raised it_, Severus wrote. That did make her smile.

_He finally surpassed mine_, she wrote back.

"You're writing to your husband, aren't you?" Harry asked. She jumped, not having realized he'd entered the kitchen.

"Yes." There was no point denying it. He and Ron knew she was married, and they'd tried to guess who to for weeks. It had been an entertaining diversion. They'd never once guessed correctly, though they'd covered everybody from Viktor Krum to Filius Flitwick.

"Is he having a better month than we are?"

"Not particularly."

She could see he wanted to ask more questions. He wanted _answers_. He deserved them, too. More than anybody. But it was too dangerous.

"Harry," she said, pulling out the relevant chart of equations. It wouldn't mean anything to him, but it would help her think the plan through as she spoke to him. "Would you mind if we didn't talk about the Horcruxes for a day? I think—the arithmancy is saying—we should do something… rather risky."

Incredibly foolhardy and inexcusably dangerous, actually.

"I'm listening," he said. And not only was he listening, he was focused. Focused like when she'd been drilling the Summoning Charm into his head before the first task, when his life had depended on it.

"We need to be seen."

"Seen?"

"Yes. Someplace where there are wizards, where we'll be spotted. But not someplace where we'll end up in a duel."

"But you said we had to stay here."

"I know. That was before,…" She cleared her throat. "That was before Ron left." Harry immediately frowned. "We need to go out someplace and be noticed, then leave before the Death Eaters show up. Remind the world that we exist, I think."

"And maybe Ron will be able to find us."

There was so much hope in his expression that Hermione had to smile.

"Maybe." She bit her lip.

"Great. Good." Harry stood up. "Yeah, let's do it. Let's go."

"Settle down, Harry. We can't just up and go right now."

"Sure we can. Why can't we?"

"Where are we going to go?"

"Godric's Hollow." His answer was immediate, unblinking. Like he'd assumed she'd been talking about Godric's Hollow all along.

"Godric's Hollow?"

"Yeah. I've never been there. And we talked about it last year."

"You'll have to remind me," Hermione said. "Last year was seven years ago."

Harry gave her an odd look, then almost smiled. "Right. Weird." He sat down again. "I've never been to my parents' graves, Hermione. And I want to see the house."

"It's just rubble. They left it as it was."

"You've been there?"

"No, but I was told about it."

"I want to go there."

Hermione thought for a moment. It really wasn't a horrible idea, of all the places they could go. It wasn't so full of magic-folk like Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade, and there were enough Muggle homes among the magic ones that nobody could come vaulting out of their houses on the attack. Well, they could; they'd just hesitate. Hopefully.

And, with any luck, there were just watchers in the neighborhood instead of a contingent of Death Eaters waiting for Harry Potter to show his face.

"Okay."

"_Really_?"

"Yes. I agree, I think we should. I mean, I can't think of anywhere else that would do better. It'll be dangerous, but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems that that's the best option."

"Great. Let's go!"

"You need to shave first, "she told him, settling into her chair more comfortably.

"What?"

"You look a wreck, Harry. People need to recognize you, and the Boy Who Lived doesn't have facial hair."

'Facial hair' was a generous term. He had a sort of rough five o'clock shadow, thickening a bit at the sideburns. It made him look unkempt, not rugged (though he was probably hoping for the latter).

"Fine."

He dashed off, and she heard him giving instructions to the razor he'd gotten for his birthday. Ten minutes later, he came back. He was clean-shaven again, and he'd even changed his shirt. He might've combed his hair, but there was really no telling.

"What'd you do that for?" he asked after she'd Disillusioned him.

"We're not just Apparating in and seeing what happens," she said, scowling in his general direction. "Get out the Cloak, too."

She Disillusioned herself, then groped her way to Harry and joined him beneath the Invisibility Cloak. It was suffocating beneath it, the both of them dressed for the winter weather. She took him Side-Along.

They arrived in Godric's Hollow in the late afternoon. A snowy lane, a blue sky. Cottages stood on either side of the narrow road, Christmas decoations twinkling in their windows. A few people were out in their yards, one shoveling the walk and another fussing with the wreath on the front door. Normal lives.

"All this snow," Hermione muttered, looking around them. "There's nothing for it, Harry. We'll have to take the Cloak off and just walk."

There were no immediate threats. It was a quiet afternoon on a quiet day.

"Where's the graveyard?" Harry asked, stowing the Cloak under his jacket.

"You put that back on at the first sign of trouble," she told him. He nodded impatiently, waiting for her to answer his question. "It's just down the lane. See the little church?"

He nodded, and they set off.

Godric's Hollow was a lovely place. She hadn't expected that—everybody she'd talked to about it had gotten a particular look on their face. Everybody she'd talked to had known the Potters, though.

There was a war memorial in the middle, partly obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. Several shops, a post office, a pub, and the little church made up the rest of the main square. The church had stained-glass windows, and there were people bustling about preparing for a service.

"Harry, I think it's Christmas Eve," Hermione said, watching a couple trot along the opposite side of the lane with packages in their hands. There was music, too, and laughter from the pub when the doors opened.

"Is it?"

She was hit by a wave of nostaligia so painful she almost sat down. They'd charmed their house and yard in Australia Christmas Eve and Christmas Day so that there was frost on the windows and snow on the grass. Severus used a clever spell to make the light in the house twinkle around the edges like it was reflected off tinsel.

She ached for those Christmases.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, and she realized she'd stopped walking. He was looking back at her, several paces ahead.

"Yes, fine. Sorry."

She put Christmas back in the box in her mind, and put the box back in the depths where it needed to stay.

"My parents will be here, won't they?" Harry asked when she'd taken the few steps and caught up to him. They started walking together again.

"Yes." She took him by the hand, gently urging him closer to the memorial. "And there's this."

He gasped when it transformed for their eyes. A man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy in his mother's arms. They had snow on their heads, but the statue was otherwise unaffected by the elements or time.

Harry walked closer, his hand clenched around hers. He stared for a long time, walking around it twice to view it from all angles. Hermione kept a lookout for any witches or wizards who noticed them, but there was nothing yet.

"C'mon," Harry said when he'd finished looking. He turned and walked toward the church, Hermione letting him lead her by the hand.

There was a kissing gate at the entrance to the graveyard. On either side of the slippery path to the church doors, the snow lay deep and untouched. They moved through the snow, and Hermione was glad that she'd charmed her boots to repel the wet of it.

Row upon row of snowy tombstones protruded from the snow. Hermione looked around, but there was nobody. Harry had his hand in his pocket, the slightly strange angle of his shoulder telling her that he had his hand clenched around his wand. That was good; he was prepared.

"Look at this, it's an Abbott. Could be some long-lost relation of Hannah's!" Harry called, and she wanted to shake him.

"Keep your voice down," she hissed, looking around again.

"I thought we wanted to get noticed."

"Don't you want to have a look around before we need to make a quick exit?"

"Right."

They waded deeper and deeper into the graveyard. The snow was an annoyance, making it cumbersome to walk and difficult to read the tombstones.

"Here," she called softly when she found it. Harry hurried back to her, face flushed.

"Is it—"

"No, but I thought you'd want to see it."

_Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also_.

Kendra Dumbledore and her daughter Ariana. The tombstone was lichen-spotted granite, iced over in places. It seemed to odd to see the name and know that it was Dumbledore's mother, his sister. He seemed so singular, and he'd been so many different things to her—the role of 'brother' or 'son' had not seemed one that he could've played.

"Let's keep looking," Harry said, sounding surprisingly bitter. It was strange how that cropped up, how he could seem the teenaged hero so often only to run into the wall of understanding, the bitterness of knowing that he'd been manipulated for the right reasons, that a friend, a mentor, had left something out.

"Harry, they're here," she said after awhile. They'd split up, dusting off Peverells, a Black, and a few more Abbotts. "Right here."

He stood next to her, looking down at the white marble. She glanced at him, but had to look away. She'd wondered if her son, her daughters, would ever look down at her grave like that. Yearning for those dates to be different, for just a little more time, more undertstanding. Grief, heaviness.

"The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death," he read, half to himself. Then he turned to her, eyes wide. "Isn't that a Death Eater idea? Why is that there?"

"It doesn't mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it, Harry," she said gently. "It means living beyond death, living after death."

Harry frowned, looking back at the grave.

"But they're gone."

Her breath hitched, but he didn't notice. The graveyard was suddenly oppressive, like it had been under the Cloak but cold. Freezing cold. She couldn't stop shivering.

He sounded so alone, and so young. It reminded her of her children, reminded her of the danger she and Severus were in. There was a very real possibility that her children would someday visit her grave, Severus's grave, and say the same thing.

She conjured a wreath and handed it to him. After a frozen moment, he'd placed it at the foot of the gravestone.

Hermione took Harry's hand again, holding on tightly. It was the only thing keeping her from Apparating to Australia. She had to remind herself why she was there, standing next to her orphaned friend while he looked at his parents' grave, their memorial. It made it all so achingly real. It made her physically ill. She looked away, holding tight to Harry.

Finally, they left. She wanted to run, to Disapparate. Hell, she'd even give flying another go. Severus had given her two more lessons after the first, and she'd almost got the hang of it. Kind of.

"Harry, stop."

Reality pushed her morose thoughts away. There was somebody watching them.

"What's wrong?"

"There's someone there, watching us. By the bushes."

They stood still, shifting so they'd appear to be looking at the graves while they really tried to get a better look at their watcher.

"That was the point, right?"

"Yes. But we still have to be careful."

"We look like Muggles. They might not recognize us."

Hermione doubted it, especially once they got back onto the street and their watcher had the chance to 'casually' walk by them. They were Undesirables One and Two; they had posters.

"Muggles who just put flowers on your parent's grave, Harry."

"Right."

She doubted it was a Death Eater since they hadn't been attacked. That didn't mean the Death Eaters hadn't been called, though.

They started walking. The pub was fuller than before. Many voices inside it were now singing a carol. Darkness was falling. The lights were all on in the church, brilliantly illuminating the stained glass windows from within.

"This way," she muttered, leading him down the dark street leading out of the village. She wanted them away from the Muggles in the church, away from the quiet little graveyard. If there was going to be a fight, she wanted maneuverability and as few witnesses as possible.

"Look," Harry said, and she did. She'd expected a horde of Death Eaters, or a dark-cloaked figure following them. Instead, he was looking at rubble. It was scattered through waist-high grass. Most of the cottage was still standing, though entirely covered in dark ivy and snow. The right side of the top floor had been blown apart where the curse had backfired.

They both stopped walking, staring up at the cottage.

_On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family._

She wondered if her death would be marked by a similar historical marker. Would there be a blasted-to-hell safe house in a quaint little village?

_The violence that tore apart their family_…

"Look," Harry whispered, tearing her out of her thoughts. She wiped away the tears before he could notice them.

"What? Oh."

He was pointing at notes all around the words on the historical marker. There were names signed in Everlasting Ink and carved initials, but the more recent messages shone brightly on top of the magical graffiti and all said similar things. "_Good luck, Harry, wherever you are." "If you read this, Harry, we're all behind you!" "Long live Harry Potter."_

"It's brilliant," Harry said, smirking. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, too. Of course he'd think vandalism was brilliant. "I'm glad they did it. I—"

He cut himself off, turning his body to the side and nodding ever so slightly, indicating she should look where he was looking.

A heavily muffled figure was hobbling up the lane toward them. It vaguely looked like a woman. her stoop, her stoutness, her shuffling gait all gave the impression of extreme age. They watched, silent and still, as she grew nearer. She stopped a few yards away, then stood there in the middle of the frozen road looking at them. She didn't draw a wand, she didn't say anything.

The woman shifted, her movement awkward. Then she raised one gloved hand and beckoned. She didn't say anything, and she kept glancing around like she was afraid they'd be caught.

_This is a horrible idea_, Hermione thought. Harry was already following her, though, and Hermione wanted to get out of the street. It was getting darker, and the lack of notice was almost suspicious. And disheartening—the whole point had been to get noticed, to stir the pot, to provoke a reaction. And they'd got nothing but horrible reminders of what her future held, and a strange old lady beckoning them up the front path through an overgrown garden.


	38. Chapter Thirty-Seven

Christmas was a nightmare. _I am in hell_, Severus thought as he ate his breakfast on Christmas Eve. Very few students had remained, luckily. The staff had, though. The Carrows had started drinking as soon as the students left and hadn't really let up. While that meant they were safely holed up in an office somewhere passing a bottle back and forth making dirty jokes (not terrorizing students), that left Severus without back-up. And the staff didn't have as many students to put on a professional face for.

_This is hell._

He missed his children. He missed his wife. He missed his friendship with the professors, or at least the camaraderie they'd shared. He missed the ease of the life they'd had in Australia.

He was fairly sure he was developing an ulcer. He'd caught himself drafting a letter to Hermione about it, thinking to ask her the best way to get rid of it. Since that wasn't a possibility (her wards kept owls out, and it was too long of a conversation to have with their spelled hands), he'd resorted to flipping through books on Healing in the library after hours.

It was just past sundown when his palm tickled.

_The fuck did he do to that snake?_ Hermione had written, the lines thicker than her usual writing.

_Nagini?_ he wrote back, putting his feet up on the coffee table and getting ready for one of what he was coming to think of as their 'palm conversations.'

_It's a constrictor; it's not supposed to bite._

_Who did it bite?_

_Harry._

_Bad?_

_I need antivenin._

He pocketed his pen, getting up and leaving his sitting room. He bypassed the stairs entirely, using the flight charm to control his descent.

"Severus?" Dumbledore's portrait asked. A few of the others fluttered and tutted in their frames. He ignored them all, especially Dumbldore.

He had plenty of antivenin. He'd stocked it in bulk since Arthur Weasley's attack, though he'd only had to use it once since.

_Where?_ he wrote on his palm, pocketing the antivenin, then an extra four doses for luck.

_Edinburgh_.

He Disapparated, then almost broke his key off in the lock because he was in such a hurry to get the door opened.

"What happened?" he asked, slamming the door behind him.

"He had the snake watching Godric's Hollow."

"What?"

"I didn't know it was that intelligent."

"It's not."

"It was animating a corpse. Living in Bathilda Bagshot's skin. Waiting."

Severus's skin crawled. _I don't want to know how he did that. That's some disgusting Dark magic…_

"Exactly."

He nodded to her, then looked past her at Harry Potter. He was lying on the kitchen table, as Severus had himself so many times.

The boy was pale and shaky, unconscious. His forearm had puncture marks, leaking blood lazily but constantly. Hermione had her clever gauze spell going as when she'd amputated Dumbledore's cursed arm, little white pads darting down and wicking away the blood, vanishing when they were saturated.

"He broke his wand," she said. She leaned against the counter by the sink, and he could see her hands shaking as she rubbed at her forehead, pushed a curl out of the way irritably.

"What happened?"

"Ron left. I had to refactor everything." She handed him a dropper, and he used it to give Potter six drops of the antivenin beneath his tongue. Then he wet a bit of gauze with the antivenin and pressed it to the wounds. "We needed to do something to be noticed, stir up action so that we could react. We don't know where the Horcruxes are; we need to create a way to make him try to protect them."

"So you went to where, Godric's Hollow?" The last he'd heard, that was where Bagshot had been living.

"Yes. Harry had never seen his parents' graves, or the memorial."

"Sounds like a fun little excursion." He sat back from the boy. The punctures on his arm had stopped bleeding. Hermione stepped in, using a different dropper to apply Dittany.

"Would've been fine if the damn snake wasn't there."

"What happened?"

"It tried to get Harry alone. I almost didn't realize it wasn't Bagshot. I ended up blasting out a window and Disapparating while we were falling. The Dark Lord was there. Just for an instant as we were falling. He almost had us."

"He wouldn't have got you."

She shrugged, rubbing her forehead again.

"You have a headache."

"I looked into his mind. He was having a vision like he used to. The Dark Lord revisting all the times he's failed to kill Harry so far."

"I thought those had ended." He didn't like it when she called him 'the Dark Lord.' She did it for his benefit, he knew, since saying 'Voldemort' made his Mark twinge, and now it was Taboo. She could've called him You-Know-Who, though. It felt wrong when she said it.

"He had one the night we took him from the Dursleys'. I'd forgotten about that."

"A Horcrux connection?"

"I think so."

"It's only linked with the Dark Lord's thoughts and emotions. His fury when Potter escapes breaching the barriers he himself has created since the disaster at the Ministry."

"Do you think I can tell him everything? Do you think it could be discovered?"

"I don't believe the Dark Lord will attempt to look into his mind, no."

"But you don't think I should tell him?"

"No," he said after a brief hesitation. "He's not ready for it. And with Weasley gone…"

"I know."

Potter began to wake, and Severus stepped back. He gave Hermione the extra vials of the antivenin, kissed her, and hurried back to the Apparation point before he was seen.

* * *

"Harry, it's all right, you're all right," Hermione said, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"No… I dropped it… I dropped it…"

"Harry, it's okay, wake up, wake up!" Finally, he opened his eyes. Hermione almost sighed with relief, but he looked so scared that she couldn't quite relax. "Harry," she whispered. "Do you feel alright?"

"Yes."

It was a lie and they both knew it. He was pale and clammy, and while the punctures on his arm were sealed the area was still puffy and red. He _would_ be alright, though, so she let it slide.

"We got away," he said.

"Yes. You've been unconscious, though."

"How long ago did we leave?"

"Hours ago. It's nearly morning."

"What happened?"

"You had another vision. And the snake bit you; I had to get the antivenin. We shouldn't stay here."

They could've stayed in the flat, but she didn't want to. It had been her haven with Severus; she didn't want to hide away there with Harry.

"One of your safe houses?"

"Yes. In Edinburgh. I lived here for a bit before I went back to Hogwarts for that last half of sixth year."

"Last year."

"For you."

He groaned, looking over his injured arm instead of contemplating her time travel. She didn't blame him.

"We shouldn't have gone to Godric's Hollow," he said after a moment. She shooed his fingers away from poking at his arm and began wrapping a bandage around it to discourage him from picking at the scabs. "It's my fault."

"It's not your fault. I wanted to go, too."

They were quiet for a moment. Harry looked around from his spot on the table as Hermione packed her things back into her satchel. She handed him a clean shirt; he'd sweated through the one he was wearing.

"What happened, Harry?" She already knew most of it from her little jaunt into his head, but she'd rather hear it from him.

"Bathilda must've been dead a while. The snake was… was inside her. You-Know-Who put it there in Godric's Hollow, to wait. You were right. He knew I'd go back."

"That's disgusting."

He nodded, shuddering.

"She didn't want to talk in front of you, because it was Parseltongue, all Parseltongue, and I didn't realize, but of course I could understand her. Once we were up in the room, the snake sent a message to You-Know-Who, I heard it happen inside my head, I felt him get excited, he said to keep me there… and then…"

She caught a flash of his thought, his memory. The snake emerging from Bagshot's neck.

"…she changed, changed into the snake, and attacked." He looked at the bandage on his arm, hands closing into agitated fists. "It wasn't supposed to kill me, just keep me there 'til You-Know-Who came."

She wondered if, with practice, Harry might be able to communicate with the Dark Lord the way Nagini was. It was a bad idea to try (because they might succeed, and then what?); there was too much that could go wrong. It could be useful, but it could also backfire horribly.

"Where's my wand, Hermione?"

"Harry…"

"_Where's my wand_?"

She pointed. She'd set it aside when she'd brought him in, keeping him upright using a Hover Charm. It lay there, the wood splintered in two, the pieces held together by a strand of phoenix feather. Harry picked it up, cradling it like a wounded animal. He held it out to her, cupping it in his hands, eyes pleading.

"Can it be fixed?"

"_Reparo_."

The dangling half of the wand resealed itself.

"_Lumos_!" Harry said. The wand sparked feebly, then went out. "_Expelliarmus_!" he tried, pointing it at her. Her wand jerked but that was all. Harry's wand split in two again.

"Harry," Hermione said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"We'll—we'll find a way to repair it."

"I don't think we're going to be able to." That was one thing she'd learned from having kids; tell them the truth even if they weren't going to like it. "Remember when Ron broke his crashing the car? It was never the same again; he had to get a new one."

Harry nodded, looking despondent.

"Well," he said in a falsely matter-of-fact voice, "well, I'll just… make due."

* * *

Severus was having a very strange dream.

He was twelve; it was the summer after his first year. His hair was shaggy around his shoulders, greasy from going unwashed; his clothes were hand-me-downs from his father, overlarge and stained.

He lay on the single green hillside near the park. He'd played there with Lily, met her during the summers. If it were a memory, she would've been beside him cloud-spotting. It wasn't a memory, though; it was a dream.

Hermione lay beside him on the hill. She was twelve, too. He knew because he'd known her at twelve—bushy hair and buckteeth. She wore a cerulean-blue sundress, a child's version of the dress she'd been wearing the first time they'd had sex; his favorite dress.

In the dream, they simply lay in the grass together. They didn't talk about the clouds; they didn't talk at all. They simply lay there and looked up. It was peaceful.

He woke weeping.

* * *

_I fucking hate that snake._

It had been a choice of getting Harry out before Voldemort arrived or burning the snake, and she'd chosen Harry. It had been a close thing, though. She'd been worked up enough that she almost would have liked to face the source of all their problems and read him the riot act.

Listening to the church bells of Godric's Hollow chime in Christmas Day, she'd blown up a mirror, getting glass all over herself in the process, and then grabbed Harry (whose main focus had been stopping his own bleeding after the snake bit him) and jumped out a window.

_I fucking hate the snake, and I hate heights and I hate falling._

She'd given Harry the copy of _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ she'd found in Bagshot's house. She'd read it while he slept, and it had made her grouchy enough that giving it to him had seemed like a good idea.

"You need a wand," she said, throwing down her quill. She'd been working the arithmancy, and it all circled back to that.

Harry looked up from his book, then cast a forlorn glance back at the counter where his shattered wand still lay.

"I have a wand."

"A wand that works."

"We'll just take one off somebody the next time—"

"No. We're going to Toulouse's."

"To Tou-who's?"

"Toulouse's. It's a wand shop in Chemin de Traverse."

"Chemin de Traverse?"

"I'm taking you to Paris, Harry."

\\\

Getting Harry Potter out of the country for a weekend hadn't actually occurred to her. The plan had always been to stay hidden and end the war. The minute they arrived in France, however, it was like something had unclenched in him, some angry tension had released.

She wondered if it was distance from Voldemort as a Horcrux, or simply knowing that he wouldn't be attacked when he walked down the street.

"Where are we going?" he asked, but without any particular urgency.

"Toulouse's," she said, pointing. It was a large storefront with a big window at the front and wands on display, a dark violet awning hanging over the door.

Chemin de Traverse was the French equivalent of Diagon Alley. It was cobbled, smelled of patries (the entrance was through a boulangerie, not a pub), and full of people. It was cheerful. People shopped and chatted, sat on shop patios. She'd visited several times when she'd been training as a Healer, and it hadn't changed much at all. (Which made sense because it had really only been a year.)

They weren't at war, and not one of the people passing by gave Hermione or Harry a second glance.

Toulouse's had once been owned and operated by a man named Toulouse, but he'd been a better businessman than wandmaker. (The story went that he'd fallen and broken his neck trying to collect wand wood—or that he'd been gored by a unicorn when he was trying to pull hairs from its tail—or attempted to use dust from manticore horns as a wand core… it changed with the teller.) The name was the same, but now it was Louis and Danielle Joly. Hermione chatted with Louis while Harry tried out the wands Danielle handed him.

It took an hour and almost a hundred wands, but they left with what they needed. After that, they wandered. They ate lunch on a bistro patio and people-watched.

She hadn't planned for it to be a weekend in Paris, but it was the first time Harry had been _anywhere_. She'd had dull ski trips with her parents, but he'd been lucky to see the local zoo.

They rented a room in a Muggle hotel and saw the sights. They had a morning at the Louvre, and an early picnic dinner in sight of the Eiffel Tower. They made the circuit of the wizarding sights, but Harry seemed more impressed with the things he'd seen in books growing up than more magic. (If he was anything like her, that was because she'd come to expect magic to be fantastic and lend itself to fantastic sights. Muggle art was different.)

Sunday night, when neither of them could sleep because they were anticipating—dreading—their return, Hermione made him a cup of tea and sat cross-legged, facing him.

"What?"

"I need to tell you a few things."

"Like what?"

"First," Hermione said, holding up a hand and withdrawing the vial from her satchel, "I'm going to take Veritaserum."

"Truth potion? Why?"

"Because I need you to know that I'm telling you the absolute truth."

He narrowed his eyes at her. She could practically see the gears turning over and over in his head, trying to guess at what she was up to. She resisted the urge to use Legilimency to find out what, exactly, he was expecting.

"Let's put our wands on the bed, shall we?" she suggested after a moment's thought.

"I'm not going to hex you."

_Actually, I'm worried you'll try to Apparate away…_

"Just do it. We're having a conversation. I'm going to tell you the full truth, and you're not going to like some of it. Probably most of it, actually. I didn't like most of it."

He frowned. After a long, thoughtful moment, he put his wand on the bed next to hers and rejoined her cross-legged on the floor.

"Okay, Hermione. I won't hex you."

"Right."

Three drops of the potion would last an hour, and she hoped she wouldn't need any more than that.

* * *

**A/N: A short one for the first this week... sorry. There's oddness afoot in life, at the moment, so I didn't have as much time to write as I'd like. The next chapter will be longer, and probably up Saturday.**

**Many thanks to PoleauPotter for the help: Chemin de Traverse is much better than la Rue Facile!**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	39. Chapter Thirty-Eight

"I'm at least 37 years old, Harry. 20 years older than I'm supposed to be. And I'm not even exactly sure—that's how crazy things have become.

"You already know this, but I'm going to tell you because it will be easier to just talk through it."

"Okay…"

"After Christmas sixth year, Dumbledore showed up at my house. He told me the Order needed me to be trained as a Healer, and he had a plan. I'd have to sit my N.E.W.T.s first; no Healing program would take me without them. So I started with the Time Turner. I did the summer twice, took my N.E.W.T.s, did the summer again for the Healing course.

"Then he had me keep going. I don't want to go into it because not all of it is relevant at this point. I'm getting off track." She blew out a breath, glancing at him for any sort of reaction. So far, he was sitting and quietly listening. He'd forgotten about his tea—he was just holding the cup in his lap.

"I did a lot of research," she said, "a lot of arithmancy. I helped plan for things, I brewed potions, I was a Healer easily called to headquarters and not obligated to report suspicious injuries to the authorities.

"It took years for Dumbledore to track down the ring, and he nearly killed himself doing it. Then he found the necklace, or thought he had, and he _did_ get himself killed over that one."

"He didn't. He was murdered."

"Not as simple as that."

"Murder is murder, Hermione."

"Of course it's not. Nothing is that simple."

"I was _there_."

"He didn't have a choice."

"He did. I watched him make it. Dumbledore—"

"When Dumbledore tells you to do something, you do it."

"He didn't tell Snape to do it! He begged him not to. 'Please,' he said."

"Believe me when I tell you Severus Snape was ordered to kill Dumbledore. He didn't want to do it. He hesitated, which was why Dumbledore said 'please,' asked him to do as he'd been told."

"Dumbledore would _never_—"

She cut him off with a bitter laugh. "Never, Harry? Never ask somebody to kill? Did you not read the papers?"

"Of course I did. They made most of it up. Mrs. Weasley said so."

"Mrs. Weasley also thought I'd thrown you over for Viktor Krum and sent me a very small Easter egg to express her disappointment."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He remembered the tea in his hand, tried to drink it, and made a face when he ended up with a mouthful of cold tea. Hermione took the cup and dumped it, brought him a fresh one.

"I was Dumbledore's dragon for many years, Harry. He handed me slips of paper with names and addresses on them. I'd sneak into the houses, take what information Dumbledore needed out of the target's mind with Legilimency, and then kill them. I burned the houses down to cover my tracks; that's why the Death Eaters started calling me the dragon."

"You said—"

"I know what I said." They'd talked about Dumbledore's dragon and the other allegations in the _Prophet_ before. She'd made light of them. She'd downright lied a few times. "I've taken Veritaserum now, haven't I?"

"You lied to me."

"I was trying to make it easier for you. Easier isn't working any more." She held out her scarred left hand. He'd know what it meant since he'd read the article that talked about the Muggle Fights, about her part in them. "This is real, Harry. I was held in a cage for months, and when I tried to get away they broke every bone in my hand and wouldn't let me fix it until after I'd used that same hand to kill somebody."

Harry looked like he might be sick. Hermione sat back, wished they had something, _anything_, alcoholic. They didn't, so instead she poured herself a cup of tea and drank it black. It wasn't particularly good.

"Snape… Dumbledore wanted Snape to kill him."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"He was dying anyway."

"His hand?"

"Yes. I amputated the cursed portion, but it only bought him time. it didn't solve anything."

"Time…" Harry murmured, thinking. He frowned.

"The plan—what we were hoping would happen—was that it would buy him enough time that you would be back at Hogwarts for seventh year before he died. We wouldn't have had to get you out of the Dursleys' like we did. The coup wouldn't have happened so soon as it did.

"But Malfoy wouldn't tell Severus what he was up to no matter what he tried. And not only that, but his crazy plan worked. He forced the hand."

"Dumbledore knew that whole year? I was telling him for ages that Malfoy was up to something, that Snape was in on it, and he never—"

"He didn't share information very well, Harry."

"You mean how, this whole time, Snape was acting on Dumbledore's orders, and the whole Order thinks he betrayed them."

"Exactly."

"That's… that's…"

"He always said that he preferred not to put all his secrets in one basket."

"You seem to know a lot of his secrets."

"I didn't know about his sister until I read Skeeter's book. Or about Grindelwald when they were young. And I only know as much as I do because I figured it out with the arithmancy. I still don't know what, exactly, he has the rest of the Order doing, for example."

"You think he has them doing something?"

"Kinglsey was guarding the Muggle Minister the last I heard. Lupin was playing ambassador to the werewolves. Things changed after Dumbledore died, though. You heard their code question to each other at the Burrow, after all."

"The last thing Dumbledore said to them."

"Yes."

"They had a private meeting with Dumbledore."

"They must've."

Harry actually smiled. He settled back on his haunches a bit and sipped his tea.

"That's good."

"Good?" How could it be good when the left hand didn't know what the right hand was doing? They were a mess.

"It's not just _me_ alone in the woods fighting this thing. I'm playing my part."

"You shouldn't have had to play a part," Hermione grumped. "You should've been allowed to finish school like a normal person. If you'd chosen to be an Auror, then you'd signed up for this sort of thing—"

"What else was I ever going to do?"

"I don't know," she said, rubbing her eyes. "Professional Quidditch?"

Harry laughed. It was a belly laugh, a hearty thing she hadn't heard since before Black died.

He got up and hugged her. She hugged him back, though she hadn't expected a hug any more than she'd expected him to laugh. She'd expected shouting. A lot of shouting. Maybe a dash for his wand.

"I'd forgotten," he said, pulling away and sitting down again, still grinning.

"What had you forgotten?"

"I'd forgotten that you're still you."

"What?"

"You're still you. It's harder to see it most of the time. You're so serious, and you're always working on the arithmancy, solving logic puzzles, moving us around. You're still you, though."

"Does that mean professional Quidditch was a bad guess?"

"No," he said, smiling again. "No, it was a perfect guess. I think, if I hadn't been expecting to fight this fight since I was eleven, I'd've chosen Quidditch."

"That's what I hate the most about it," Hermione said, looking up at the ceiling. "Dumbledore was testing us from the beginning. Hiding the stone in the castle and dropping hint after hint to you that it was in danger and the teachers weren't doing anything? That was him seeing how you'd react. He meant to be watching us through the whole experience, you and whoever you chose as your sidekicks."

"That's—"

"Machiavellian? Manipulative? Callous? Irresponsible?"

"It's cold, yes," he said, nodding, but he looked thoughtful. "It's strategic, though, right? Logical."

"What?"

"He had to test us to be sure we could do it. How could he know that we'd carry on the fight once he was dead if he hadn't tested us and taught us before that?"

"He shouldn't have placed it on us to begin with!"

"Had to," Harry said. He shrugged. "Prophecy."

Hermione wanted to pull her hair out.

"Harry, your bloody scar is a Horcrux! _That's _why you can see what he sees when he's angry. _That's_ why you could hear Nagini call to him when she had us at Godric's Hollow. She's a Horcrux, too." It was all coming out in a rush. She could hear her pulse racing in her ears. Harry just sat there, stunned, as she talked faster and faster, louder and louder. "I've run the equations thousands of times. _Dumbledore_ ran the equations. I made Severus invent a truly atrocious spell. None of it works. None of it balanced.

"No matter what I try, you die. I can't find a way to remove the bit of _his_ soul from your scar without removing your soul, too. And the only way to destroy a Horcrux is to destroy the vessel, and you are the vessel." She took a deep breath. She wished Harry would say something, but he was just sitting there. "There is the tiniest fraction of a chance that, if the Dark Lord is the one to do it, to cast the curse that kills you, if he's the one to destroy the vessel, his spell would only destroy the Horcrux and you'd come out of it alive."

"That's the plan then, right?" he asked without hesitation, his face suddenly lighting up like it did when he talked Quidditch, when he and Ron were going over games and talking about Wronski Feints and other things she'd never caught on to. "We'll get the other Horcruxes, then draw him out. You could burn something; that'd be flashy enough. And then we face off, and he does it, destroys it himself. Then I kill him."

"Or then you're dead!"

"Dumbledore thought it would work, didn't he?"

"Yes," she said through her teeth, forced by the potion. "It is statistically unlikely, but statistically possible. While he was a manipulative bastard, he wasn't completely unfeeling. He was nearing his death and he didn't want to think that he was leaving us with a plan that deliberately killed a seventeen-year-old boy."

"You're very cynical, you know that?"

"Killing hurts, Harry. It hurts every time. Even when it's a bad person, even when it's for the right reason. You feel it." She tried not to glare at him, but she couldn't keep herself from glaring so she looked away. "Albus Dumbledore sent me out to kill so often that they came up with a nickname for me." She looked back at him at last. "Of course I'm cynical."

"But you still have hope."

She was glad he hadn't phrased it as a question, because the answer was 'yes' and it didn't illustrate her point in the least.

"How would you know?"

"Like I said before, you're still you."

"I don't know what that means."

"You do, don't you? You still have hope."

"Yes."

"Why?"

He was probably hoping for some strategic answer, for some revealing little factoid, an ace in the hole. Instead, she said, "I'm a mother, Harry. I have to hope that all this shit and hurt and death and violence amounts to something better than what we started with."

Harry got a gleam in his eye that she didn't like. She'd told him and Ron an abbreviated version of her time in Australia—she'd been pregnant, she and her husband had fled the country and used the Time Turner, it had backfired, they'd had three lovely children, named them Bast, Sofia and Ellie. They'd wanted to know who her husband was, they'd wanted to see pictures of her children, they'd wanted to know where they all were now. She hadn't told them any of that.

"What's your husband's name?"

"Severus Snape."

* * *

Severus had a seat of honor. First row, third on the Dark Lord's right.

It was impossible to leave without being noticed. He had to lean forward and look fascinated by the blood, appear to be enjoying it. He couldn't look away, but that was only because he, horribly, was imagining the smaller of each pair was Hermione.

The Dark Lord had held the first Muggle Fight since the death of Remy Bird, hosted in a pit carved out on the Malfoy estate, the weekend before. It was now a weekly tradition. Every Friday night, Death Eaters gathering in the rows of stadium-seating with their spouses and friends, cheering and jeering while they watched captured Muggle-borns fight.

The Muggle-borns weren't kept at the Manor. Bellatrix implied that the smell of them was the reason, but Severus suspected they were simply plucked out of Ministry holding cells as needed, since it was more convenient not to have to think about feeding them or preventing escape when the Ministry budget and ignorant (or bribed) Aurors could be made to do it.

He almost hadn't told Hermione. He hadn't wanted to. It would've been worse if she'd found out through some other means, though.

After the first Fight, when he'd fully emptied his stomach and brushed his teeth after, he sat down with a firewhiskey and his Muggle pen.

_They've brought back the Muggle Fights._

There was a long pause. Long enough for him to wonder if she was doing something, if something had happened. The she wrote back.

_Who's fighting?_

_Captured Muggle-borns. Out of Minstry holding._

_The Registration Act?_

_Yes._

A pause again.

_They fight to the death?_ she asked.

_And naked._

There had been three fights the first weekend. The first had been two men, physically evenly-matched. The winner of that fight had fought a larger man. The second fight had dragged on; the larger man had obviously never been in a fight in his life. Eventually, the man from the first match had won the second, but he'd lost the third to a narrow-faced woman. She'd been willowy and had mean eyes. She'd looked relieved to have survived the night, but the Dark Lord had killed her with a negligent flick of his wand and a flash of green light.

_Where?_ she'd asked.

_If I tell you, are you going to try to stop them?_

_No. Maybe._

_Don't, Hermione._

_I ended them once. _

_The Dark Lord hosts them._

_Hosts them where?_

_It's a bad idea._

_Hosts them where?_

_Malfoy Manor._

_Damn._

He finished his whiskey before he wrote again: _Should I not have told you?_

_I don't know_.

\\\

He woke in the middle of the night. Something was watching him.

"_Lumos_."

The lights flickered, and he saw the ugliest cat in the world sitting at the foot of his bed. It was watching him, its tail flicking from side ot side.

"You're Hermione's cat," he said to it. It didn't do anything. It just sat there, staring down at him, tail twitching. "I don't have any food for you." The cat blinked, but kept on staring. Severus sighed. "If you destroy anything while I sleep, I'll use you as potions ingredients."

The cat looked away, seeming bored. It inspected a patch of blanket, pawed at it a bit, then curled up and went to sleep. Severus watched, wondering what that had been about.

\\\

_What's your cat's name? _he asked her in the morning. She didn't respond for almost an hour.

_My cat?_

_Ugly orange fellow._

_Crookshanks—I thought he'd ended up at the Burrow._

_It seems he's decided to live in my rooms._

_Be good to him. He tried to eat Pettigrew when we thought he was Scabbers._

_I think I can put up with him, then._

* * *

They'd been back in England for less than a week. The safe house was a tiny thing outside Liverpool.

She didn't know how the Snatchers tracked them down; they'd simply arrived outside the house one evening.

"Come out of there with your hands up!" a rasping voice called. "We know you're in there! You've got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don't care who we curse!"

"How did they find us?" Harry whispered, but Hermione could only shrug. She flicked her wand, dousing the lights.

"Stay here," she admonished, making a quick circuit of the house. There were six wizards outside, none of them familiar. She doubted any of them were Death Eaters: They had wands drawn and looked like they meant business, but they were all gathered by the front door, jostling elbows, excited.

"Well, what're you selling?" Hermione called once she reached the foyer again. Harry looked at her like she'd lost her mind. She held up a hand, begging for silent patience. She took up a position near the front door.

"Wha'?" the Snatchers muttered to each other, shifting around a bit. She peaked through the curtain, watching them look at each other.

"What. are. you. selling?" she repeated. They had a few minutes before they started pounding the house; Hermione used them to prepare. Her satchel was shrunk and went in her back pocket, but only after she'd taken out the things she had once worn when she played the dragon. "You've got to be selling _something_," she said. Hermione twisted the leathers around her wrists and hands. "Why else would you be outside my bloomin' house at suppertime?"

"Leave off!" one shouted back.

"There's a mouth on this one," muttered the one closest to the door.

"I said get out here or we'll start—"

She cut him off by blowing out the window next to the door, then striding out the door into the confusion.

"You'll start what?" she asked, trying to sound like Severus at his mocking best but only coming so close.

"Merlin's beard," said one of them.

"That's Dumbledore's dragon," said another.

She hadn't liked being Dumbledore's dragon.

"Not Dumbledore's anymore, am I?" she said, and she heard the threat in her own voice.

Harry snared the Snatcher closest to her with _Incarcerous_. They scattered, looking back at the house in confusion.

"Go back in the house," she snarled over her shoulder.

_I'm not a very nice person anymore_, she thought, and set to it. She didn't bother with anything but the fire.

They screamed. They were caught in their own Anti-Disapparition ward. A few tried to fight, but the fire was too hot. They didn't have a chance.

It was over in less than half a minute.

She swore under her breath, realizing she'd killed them all. Even the ones Harry had tied up with his spell. It would've been nice to have one to question; she still didn't know how they'd been found.

Quickly, she transfigured the bodies into bones and Harry buried them beneath the spiky shrubbery next to the door.

When they finished, she wanted to jump in the shower and scrub herself raw, scrub it all away.

_At least the children are half a world away._

\\\

They had to leave the safe houses behind after that. They didn't know how they'd been found, for one. And there were ways to trace them back to the other houses through the one already discovered, anyway.

For better or worse, they'd be using the tent she'd borrowed from Mr. Weasley.

_We've resorted to bloody camping_, she wrote on her palm. Harry was asleep in the tent. She'd set the wards to wake her if anybody was about, but she hadn't been able to sleep anyway. His prompt response—Crookshanks had taken to leaving him ghastly tokens of affection, mice on the hearth rug and such—meant he couldn't sleep either.

\\\

"So. Mrs. Snape, huh?" Harry said. It felt like it had been years since their conversation in France. He hadn't said much about it. He'd asked if she had pictures of her children, and she had shown him the two she hadn't been able to leave behind. He'd accepted it. He'd been thinking about it.

"Madam Snape, actually," she said, trying to sound like the know-it-all she'd been when they were in school. "I'm a Healer."

"Like Madam Pomfrey, then."

"Exactly."

"Snape, though. Really."

"You want to talk about this now?"

They were eating a meager dinner of tinned beans topped with wild mushrooms. Without the safe houses, they didn't have the supply of nonperishables or the emergency Muggle cash to buy groceries. She'd taken everything with them from the Liverpool house, but it hadn't lasted.

"Well," he said, pushing a mushroom around his plate. "I've had time to think about it."

"I see."

He glanced up at her and shrugged before refocusing on the mushroom. "He didn't—you didn't—" He sighed. He set his spoon down and looked up at her, eyes keen. "There wasn't anything going on when you really were a student, was there?"

In that moment, he looked so much like a concerned elder brother that she laughed out loud.

"No, Harry. I promise. There was nothing between us until I'd already done most of the Turning. We were married Christmas of sixth year, so I was around thirty."

"I just had to ask." He looked almost embarrassed, so she got up and hugged him.

"Thank you for asking."

"And he's not awful?" Harry asked a few minutes later. They'd finished their suppers and the dishes had just put themselves away.

"What?"

"He's always so intense, Hermione. And he's angry about everything. He hates Gryffindors. He made you cry."

"I love him dearly and he loves me back, and we spent seven absolutely brilliant years raising our children together, Harry," she said. "I assure you, we're—"

"Oh my god, Professor Snape is a dad."

Hermione laughed again, not stopping until there were tears streaming down her face.

* * *

**A/N: As far as I've noticed, Harry goes with his first reaction to people unless he's given mind-blowing evidence to the contrary. He first saw Snape and thought he was a bit sketchy, therefore he is dark and untrustworthy until he proves otherwise by dying for the cause. He first saw Dumbledore as the doddering grandfather type—"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"—and an authority figure, therefore that was what he was until after he'd died (and even then he didn't see the manipulative streak). That's the basis for his reaction here. Once he knew about Snape, he thought he was a hero (and he's working towards that, though it's slower going because Snape is alive and married to his friend and it's weird). Once he knew about Dumbledore, he still believed in the plan.**

**Sorry there wasn't more shouting. (I hated his stint fifth year with all the shouting, though...) At least you have the part where he realizes that Hermione knew where, when and how Sirius Black would die to look forward to?**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	40. Chapter Thirty-Nine

"So what was it you told Ron that you didn't tell me?" Harry asked. It was late again, and neither of them could sleep. They didn't really have a plan, and it bothered them.

"I told him your scar was a Horcrux."

"He didn't take it well."

"He was mad I didn't have a way to get it out of you."

"And then he came and asked me about my plans for tracking down the Horcruxes. I told him I didn't even know where the rest of them were."

"That helps explain why he reacted," Hermione said, nodding. "He knew where one was."

"He thought we had more of a plan."

"You and I have an advantage, too—you and I don't have to worry that our families will be punished for our actions."

"My parents are dead, and nobody knows you're married."

"Right." She sighed, getting up to pace. "That's what worries me most about Ron being gone. Okay, not most, but it's at the top of the list. If he's caught, they'll have proof that his parents were involved, falsifying the spattergroit, covering it up. If he's caught, his whole family goes down, too."

"He'll be careful. He knows what's going on. Maybe he even went back to the Burrow?"

"I don't—"

The wards twinged and she palmed her wand, moving to the doorway and pulling aside the tent flap.

"What is it?"

"Somebody's probing the wards."

"More Snatchers?"

They'd seen two bands of them since they'd settled in the Forest of Dean. They were mostly groups of stupid wizards, out to make the bounty on runaway Muggle-borns and blood traitors.

"It's just one person. A wizard, I think."

"Who?"

"No idea. Young. They don't know much about wards, but they did detect them. Either they were looking for something specific, or they had some other way to see past the Notice-Me-Not."

"You think it's somebody from school? Dean Thomas is Muggle-born; he wouldn't have been able to go back. Or Ernie Macmillan."

"But how would he know to look for us here?"

"Can he see us if we go out?"

"No. The wards are holding."

"Let's go see who it is, then."

"They'll still be able to hear you. The wards only keep people outside from seeing in."

"I'll be quiet, then."

Every sound he made seemed amplified. She'd put a Silencing Charm on his shoes, but his steps still crunched in the layers of snow and dead leaves on the ground. Her own breathing seemed to echo around the clearing.

"It's Ron!" Harry whispered at the same time that she got a good look at the wizard on the other side of the wards.

He was tall, redheaded, pale. He wore a faded wool jumper with an 'R' on it under an open winter coat. Blue jeans, trainers. He was stubbly and scruffy and sick-looking, but most of all he was wet. He was dripping. His clothes seemed to be dry, but he himself was soaked to the bone, and shivering in the winter cold from it.

Ron prodded at the wards clumsily, his wand arm shaking from the cold or from nerves. He held a sword in the other hand, gripping the hilt and pointing the tip at the ground.

Before she could protest—or do any sort of check to verify that it really was Ron—Harry reached through the wards and grabbed him, pulling him through. Ron grinned, teeth chattering.

"Hey."

"_Hey_?" Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "You've been gone for _weeks_ and the first thing you say is 'hey?'"

Ron shrugged, looking uncertain, glancing from one of them to the other. Hermione flicked her wand at him and was gratified that he didn't even flinch. She dried him off, and then hugged him.

"I'm glad you're okay," she said, squeezing him tight, then remembered the sword and stepped back.

"I'm sorry," Ron said in a thick voice. "I'm sorry I left. I know I was a—a—"

"Shut up, Ron," Hermione said.

Simultaneously, Harry said, "Arse." He had his arms crossed, his face set in a frown.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You could've been dead. _We _could've been dead."

"I knew you weren't dead," Ron said, rolling his eyes. Hermione took the sword from him and urged them into the tent. "Harry's all over the _Prophet_, all over the radio, they're looking for you everywhere, all these rumors and mental stories. I knew I'd hear straight off if you were dead, you don't know what it's been like—"

"What it's been _like_?"

"I wanted to come back the minute I'd Disapparated."

"We stayed at that house for hours, Ron," Hermione said gently.

"I walked straight into a gang of Snatchers They're everywhere. I was on my own and I look like I might be school age; they got really excited, thought I was Muggle-born in hiding. I had to talk fast to get out of being dragged to the Ministry."

"What did you say to them?"

"Told them I was Stan Shunpike. First person I could think of."

"And they believed that?"

"They weren't the brightest. One of them was definitely part troll, the smell of him..."

Hermione made tea. She left the sword on a chair by the camp stove and fixed them each a cup of tea. It was the last of the tea, actually.

"Anyway, they had a row about whether I was Stan or not. It was a bit pathetic to be honest, but there were still five of them and only one of me, and they'd taken my wand. Then two of them got into a fight and while the others were distracted I managed to hit the one holding me in the stomach, grabbed his wand, Disarmed the bloke holding mine, and Disapparated. I didn't do it so well, Splinched myself again." He held up his right hand; it was missing two fingernails. That was easy enough to fix. Hermione held his wrist firmly and kept him still when he flinched as his fingernails regrew. "Ow. Ow. Er. I came out miles from where you are when I Splinched. By the time I got back to the house where we'd been… you'd gone."

"How did you find us?" Hermione asked. "Just now."

"The Deluminator. It doesn't just turn the lights off," Ron said. "I don't know how it works or why it happened then and not any other time, because I've been wanting to come back ever since I left."

\\\

It was March when Harry broke the Taboo. One minute they were listening to the radio—Ron had introduced them to Potterwatch—and the next the wards were down. This time, they didn't have the advantage of a house. It was just the tent.

It was dark. The lights had gone out when the wards fell.

_Oh, shit._

She Summoned Harry and Ron's knapsacks and hoped they hadn't left anything important out. She shoved it all into her satchel, then folded the satchel down to wallet size and stuck it into her back pocket, unobtrusive. Hopefully they wouldn't take it.

She shot a Stiniging Hex at Harry's face, and he toppled over backwards. His fall distracted Ron, who had his wand half out of his pocket when the Snatchers swarmed through the flap. She Stunned one before the guy behind him disarmed her. She punched the closest one in the face, feeling his nose snap against her knuckles.

"Bitch," somebody snarled close behind her. Somebody bigger than her grabbed her around the chest, pinning her arms. She kicked, struggled, tried to connect her heel to his soft parts. She got close once, but then he dropped her.

"Get up, vermin."

They had Harry, jerking him roughly up and out the flap. His hands were prodding at his face tenderly, hardly paying attention to the wizards dragging him out. Ron had a wizard by the hair, but the wizard was the one with the wand.

Hermione ran after Harry, launching herself at the nearest Snatcher. She was unarmed—no wand, no knife, no cheese wire—but the first one she got solved that for her. He had a tiny little throwing knife in his hand, trying to use it like a larger blade. She hit him upside the head with combined fists and took the knife as he fell, then threw it at the Snatcher holding Harry's wand. The wizard Disapparated before it hit him, and it buried itself to the hilt in the tree behind him instead.

"Get off! Get off!" Ron shouted. The one he'd had by the hair now had him by the hair.

Hermione tried to Stun the one who was dragging Ron, but she couldn't do it wandlessly.

The spell hit her from behind, just above her left knee. For a moment, she felt it burn up her thigh, and then shoot up her spine.

She went down hard. It hurt like hell, made her vision blur over for a moment. She tried to get up, but she couldn't get her leg under her.

The big one hauled her up, pinned her arms, and brought her around to face the biggest one.

"I know who _you_ are," the biggest one said. He was a new arrival, showing up with the Snatcher who'd Disapparated when she'd thrown the knife. "You're the dragon. Granger, innit?"

She didn't reply. One of them had Harry, limp and swollen, sagging against his captor. Another had Ron, a brilliant purple bruise growing across his cheekbone.

"Delicious," the one who'd spoken said, stepping in too close and dragging the back of his fingers down the side of her face. "What a treat.. I do enjoy the softness of the skin…"

Hermione glared at him, finally placing his face. Fenrir Greyback, the wereworlf. He wore the robes of a Death Eater in exchange for his hired savagery, but he wasn't Marked. It made him meaner.

"Let's see who we've got," Greyback said, turning away after a final leer. "I'll be needing butterbeer to wash that one down. What happened to you, ugly?"

Hermione felt an absurd urge to laugh.

"I _said_," repeated Greyback, punching Harry in the gut. "What happened to you?"

"Stung," Harry muttered. "Been stung."

"Yeah, looks like it," one of the Snatchers agreed.

"What's your name?"

"Dudley."

"And your first name."

"I—Vernon. Vernon Dudley."

His uncle and cousin.

"Check the list, Scabior," said Greyback. The one who'd Disapparated pulled out a bit of parchment as Greyback turned to Hermione, grinning foully.

There was more leering, more jeering. A couple of them slapped at her a bit, reminding her of names Dumbledore had given her a lifetime or two ago. It was finally Greyback that knocked her out.

\\\

She woke wrapped in the conjured ropes of an _Incarcerous_. One of the Snatchers was directing her along beside a tall hedge. The others—and it was more than just Harry and Ron; she was fairly certain that was Dean Thomas there—shuffled along at wand-point. Harry was still swollen.

"How do we get in? They're locked, Greyback, I can't—blimey!"

"State your purpose." The gate had twisted into a frightening face, speaking with a clanging, echoing voice. It was an impressive bit of magic.

"We've got Potter! We've captured Harry Potter!"

Hermione noted that one of the nameless Snatchers was holding the Sword of Gryffindor and wished that her eyes would focus properly.

The gates swung open.

"Come on!"

They went up the drive. There were albino peacocks strutting around the tops of the hedges, and it made her want to laugh. What a useless thing. Unless, of course, they had been spelled like the gates. Maybe they were some menacing thing she'd never heard of, disguised as peacocks. She shivered.

Harry was stumbling more than he should be and wondered if she'd damaged him badly with the spell. But no, he shouldn't be so out of it. It was a simple Stinging Hex. Unpleasant, but simple. Had they hit him, too? Was he concussed? Confunded?

"What is this?" asked a woman's cold voice.

"We're here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!"

"Who are you?"

"You know me!" There was resentment in the werewolf's voice." Fenrir Greyback! We've caught Harry Potter!"

Harry was dragged forward out of Hermione's line of sight.

"I know 'e's swollen, ma'am, but it's 'im!" said Scabior. "If you look a bit closer, you'll see 'is' scar. There's no doubt it's 'im, and we've got 'is wand as well! 'Ere, ma'am—"

Hermione took back any and all of that shallow gladness she'd felt that Scabior had not died by her knife.

Narcissa Malfoy came into view, scrutinizing first Harry and then her. She cast half a glance at the other prisoners.

"Bring them in."

The inside of the Manor was much like Hogwarts. A gloomy, oppressive Hogwarts.

"Follow me." She led the way across the hall. "My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know."

The drawing room was lovely. Compared to the hall of morose portraits, it was dazzling. A huge room, a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, dark plum-colored paper on the walls, more portraits in gilded frames. Lucius and Draco Malfoy rose from high-backed chairs across the room by the fire. The fireplace was ornate marble, beautiful.

"What is this?" Lucius Malfoy drawled. He was tall and thin, but gray around the edges where he had once been gold.

"They say they've got Potter," Narcissa said. "Draco, come here."

Hermione kept her chin up as Draco came nearer. He was staring at her, at the ropes around her. She met his eyes and discovered that he'd had training in Occlumency. Without her wand and a direct attempt, she could glean nothing from his mind.

The prisoners were corralled, Harry brought forward beneath that crystal chandelier.

"Well, boy?" Greyback asked.

"Well, Draco?" Lucius asked, and Draco tore his eyes from Hermione to look at Harry. "Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"

Hermione felt like laughing. Harry looked awful. He hadn't looked much like himself before she'd hit him with the hex—his hair was long and shaggy, and he hadn't shaved in days.

"I can't—I can't be sure," said Draco. He carefully stood away from Greyback, as if he was afraid of catching fleas or something. And he didn't seem to want to look at Harry.

"But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!"

Hermione noted with a pang that Lucius Malfoy was desperate. He was in disgrace, he had lost his prestige. Severus had said that the Malfoys had found some strange, desperate family loyalty in recent months. He'd lost every and all means of protecting and providing for his family in the last few years; his only hope was to please the Dark Lord and hope that he'd be rewarded in the event of victory.

"Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv—"

"Now, we won't be forgetting who actually caught him, I hoped, Mr. Malfoy," Greyback said menacingly. Hermione smirked at Greyback, hoping to make him mad, hoping for a scene. Any significant disturbance could be turned into an escape.

"Of course not, of course not!" Lucius snapped, impatient. He stepped past Greyback, closer to Harry. "What did you do to him?" He turned to look over his shoulder at Greyback, facing away from her. Draco's eyes snapped to her the moment his father couldn't see. "How did he get into this state?"

"That wasn't us."

"Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me," Lucius said. Hermione smirked again. A Stinging Hex, not a Stinging Jinx; the difference was subtle and not actually significant.

"There's something there," Lucius said, turning back to Harry. He was looking at his forehead, his scar stretched out of proportion by the hex. "It could be the scar, stretched tight… Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?"

Draco stepped closer, tearing his eyes away from Hermione. She had the odd feeling that he was trying to communicated, but he'd never learned Legilimency.

"I don't know," Draco said again. He walked back toward the fireplace and his mother.

"We had better be certain, Lucius," Narcissa said, voice cold and clear. "Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord… They say this is his—" She held up Harry's new wand. "—but it does not resemble Ollivander's description… If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing… Remember what he did to Rowle?"

"What about the Mudblood, then?" Greyback asked, growled. He twitched his wand and she was jerked forward, in the full light of the huge chandelier.

"Wait," Narcissa said, stepping closer. "Yes—yes, she was in Madam Malkin's with Potter! I saw her picture in the _Prophet_! Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"

"I… maybe… She looks older."

"She had _this_ on her neck," Greyback said, pulling the Time Turner out of his pocket. Its rings were still fused together from its last use. "Time Turner, looks like."

"Yes, it is," Lucius said, taking it and looking it over with interest. "Broken, though."

"Used it up, I'll bet," Greyback said. Hermione shot him a look.

_That's not how it works, asshole._

"You were allowed that for one year," Lucius said, looking at her thoughtfully, if also haughtily. "You stole it."

She scowled at him, but didn't bother saying anything.

"She's the Granger bitch, though," Greyback said, shoving the Time Turner back in his pocket, obviously tired of thinking about it. "The dragon."

Draco was staring. Harry looked nervous. Narcissa's face was blank.

"What is this? What's happened, Cissy?"

Bellatrix Lestrange walked slowly around the prisoners, and stopped on Harry's right, staring at Hermione through heavily-lidded eyes. Hermione wondered if the older witch was high. She looked drugged.

"But surely," Bellatrix said quietly, "this is the Mudblood girl? This is Granger? _The dragon_."

"Yes, yes, it's Granger!" cried Lucius. "And beside her, we think, Potter! Potter and his friends, caught at last!"

"Potter?" shrieked Bellatrix, turning to look at Harry. "Are you sure? Well, then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!"

Bellatrix dragged back her left sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark. The same as Severus's, but different, somehow, because she still wanted it to be there. Loved it.

"I was about to call him!" Lucius interrupted, going so far as to grab Bellatrix's wrist to prevent her from touching the Mark. "_I _shall summon him, Bella. Potter has been brought to my house, and it is therefore upon my authority—"

"Your authority!" she sneered, trying to slip his grip and failing. "You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take your hands off me!"

"This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy—"

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Malfoy," Greyback interrupted, "but it's us that caught Potter, and it's us that'll be claiming the gold—"

"Gold!" Bellatrix laughed, wrenching at her arm now, other hand groping for her wand. "Take your gold, filthy scavenger, what do I want with gold? I seek only the honor of his—of—"

Bellatrix went still. Lucius dropped her wrist, seeming relieved she'd given in to his wishes, and began to roll back his own sleeve.

"STOP!" Bellatrix cried, now grabbing his arm. "Do not touch it. We shall all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!"

Lucius froze, his index finger inches from his own Mark. Bellatrix let him go and strode over to one of the Snatchers whose name Hermione didn't know.

"What is that?" Bellatrix asked.

"Sword," grunted the Snatcher. He held it up a bit so she could see it, though he had both hands wrapped around the scabbard possessively.

"Give it to me."

"It's not yorn, missus, it's mine. I reckon I found it."

Hermione didn't even see Bellatrix draw her wand. There was a bang and a flash of red light. A violent _Stupefy_. The other Snatchers roared, jumping to their comrade's defense. Scabior drew his wand.

"What d'you think you're playing at, woman!"

Nonverbally, Bellatrix Stunned the others. Unfortunately, she didn't Stun Greyback. Hermione was still bound.

"Where did you get this sword?" Bellatrix screeched, turning on Greyback. His wand wavered at her vitriol, and Hermione felt the ropes binding her wavering as well.

"How dare you?" he snarled in return. Bellatrix flicked her wand, and Greyback was on his knees, struggling against whatever spell had been cast. Hermione dropped to the floor and stood still, holding the ropes in place as they tried to slip down.

"Where did you get this sword?" Bellatrix repeated, her voice low and cold now. She waved the hilt of it in his face. "Snape sent it to my vault in Gringott's!"

"It was in their tent!" Greyback gasped. "Release me, I say!"

She did, jabbing her wand at him. He lurched to his feet, glaring. He didn't seem to notice that his spell had failed any more than the others did; Hermione remained still.

"Draco, move this scum outside," Bellatrix said, indicating the unconscious Snatchers. "If you haven't got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me."

"Don't you dare speak to Draco like—" Narcissa began furiously, but Bellatrix screamed, high and mad, then spoke.

"Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!"

Bellatrix gripped the sword tightly, examining the hilt.

"If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed," she muttered, looking at Harry. "The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself… But if he finds out… I must… I must know…"

Hermione had the horrible feeling that she was rationalizing something. And if it was something _Bellatrix Lestrange_ needed to rationalize to herself, it was truly awful.

"The prisoners must be placed in the cellar while I think what to do," Bellatrix said to her sister.

"This is my house, Bella, you don't give orders in my—"

"Do it! You have no idea of the danger we are in!" Bella shrieked. A thin stream of fire flicked out of her wand, scorching the carpet, and everybody in the room knew that it hadn't been intentional. The woman was completely unhinged.

"Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback," Narcissa said after a moment.

"Wait," said Bellatrix. "All except… except for the Mudblood."

Ron shouted protests, but Hermione was relieved. She knew Occlumency, and she'd been tortured before. She could keep their secrets while they could not.

"If she dies under questioning, I'll take you next," Bellatrix promised him, sounding maddeningly reassuring. "Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they are secure, but do nothing more to them—yet."

The others disappeared out a side door. She could hear Greyback taunting them, but couldn't make out what he said.

That left her alone with Bellatrix, Lucius and Narcissa. Draco had taken the Snatchers away.

Before they could start anything, Hermione pressed her advantage and threw the ropes off of herself. She kept a loop in her hands and jerked it around Bellatrix's neck the moment she was close enough to do so.

For almost half a minute, Hermione thought she'd be successful. Lucius and Narcissa were slow to respond, and when they did they were too careful not to hit her prisoner. Bellatrix, for her part, struggled and kicked but forgot that she was the one with a wand in her hand. It wasn't until one of the Malfoys landed a Stinging Jinx on her ribs that she lost her grip on the rope and rolled away. She could feel the skin over her ribs swelling up, hurting, and tried to ignore it.

Bellatrix stumbled back, ripped the rope free, gasped. Hermione punched her twice quickly, once in the gut then once in the temple, and she went down. The crack of her body hitting the wood floor echoed in the large room. Hermione darted toward the fire, toward the Malfoys. One of them cast a Tripping Jinx and she went down, but turned it into a roll and was quickly at them again. It was strange they weren't more eager to attack her properly, but she had a feeling she'd surprised them.

The Cruciatus Curse tore through her and she screamed, falling to the floor again. Her muscles spasmed; she writhed on the priceless rug.

After a moment, it was done. Hermione rolled on her back to breathe, looking up at the crystal chandelier. She'd made it almost all the way across the room; she was directly beneath it again.

"Where did you get the sword, Mudblood?" Bellatrix asked. There was a cut on her cheekbone where Hermione had hit her, knuckles and skull brutalizing the skin between. The trickle of blood didn't seem to bother her, though. "How did you get into my vault?"

Hermione remained silent.

_You're very concerned about us being in your vault. That's interesting._

"Fine, then," Bellatrix said, flicking her wand. Hermione felt herself go absolutely still, as if she'd have been able to move anyway. "I'll find out a different way. _Legilimens_."

It was immediately obvious that Hermione was the more skilled at mind magic. She rolled the Legilimency back on Bellatrix, forcing her into a box in her own mind, forcing her back to the mental space of Azkaban.

The Body Bind fell away and Hermione gasped for breath. Bellatrix had fallen to the side, nose bleeding, eyes wide and panicked, whimpering. It would have been more gratifying if Hermione hadn't felt so sick, so shaky and weak. The leg that had taken the curse earlier was bent beneath her and refused ot straighten; her muscles twitched and spasmed as the effects of the Cruciatus Curse faded. She managed to roll away from the witch, but then spoiled her own escape by vomiting.

Bellatrix was recovered by the time Hermione was.

_Fuck._

"I'm going to ask you again!" Bellatrix shrieked, casting _Petrificus totalus_ again. Hermione stared up at the chandelier, noting the pretty way the light refracted in the crystals. "Where did you get this sword? _How_?"

Hermione didn't answer. Bellatrix cast _Crucio_ again. She was still under the Body Bind so she couldn't writhe, couldn't scream properly through her clamped-shut jaw. She thought she might explode.

"You are a lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, _tell the truth_!"

Crucio.

Hermione could feel herself drifting away, which was a new development. The strength of the Cruciatus Curse from Bellatrix was astounding. Her handler at the Muggle Fights had liked to wake her up with the Cruciatus, wand tip touched to her skin. Immediate, intense, excruciating. But she'd been able to writhe away, and he'd let her be after that, laughing. Bellatrix was using the spell for longer stretches than she'd ever experienced it before, and the hatred fueling the spell was immense.

For the first time, Hermione worried she might actually be killed.

The Body Bind broke and Hermione screamed again, wretched. Her children's faces were swimming in her mind; the thought that she might never see them again was more horrible than the pain of the curse.

"What else did you take?" Bellatrix asked. She was physically on top of her now, holding her down. Hermione didn't have the strength to fight back. She lay limp beneath the other witch, staring up at the mad, beautiful face thrown into sharp relief by the bright chandelier above. "What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"

Hermione wondered where the knife had come from. It was silver, not hers. Usually it was her own knife that was turned against her, which was something she really ought to have thought of before. Maybe it wasn't such a good thing to carry it.

Hermione might have passed out for a little while. When the world came into focus again, Bellatrix was doing something awful to the inside of her left arm; she couldn't move her head to look, but she could feel a cold blade slicing along her skin.

_Please, God, don't let it be a cursed blade. That's all I need right now._

And with that absurd thought, Hermione began struggling again. Bellatrix hit her in the temple, and Hermione subsided, stunned.

"You are going to tell me what else you took," Bellatrix said, finishing whatever she'd been doing to Hermione's arm and sitting back. Hermione half expected her to lick the blade, but she didn't. Instead, she cleaned it off on Hermione's shirt, then shoved her hard in the chest and leapt off. "What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! _CRUCIO!_"

Hermione screamed.

"How did you get into my vault? Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?"

_What goblin?_

"It's a copy," Hermione said, finally finding words. She couldn't handle any more. She could feel the walls of her Occlumency buckeling, brittle edges forming as she tried to use them to keep the pain out.

"What?"

"The sword." Her tongue felt thick in her mouth; the words tasted like slugs. "We've never been inside your vault. It isn't the real sword. It's just a copy."

"A copy? Oh, a likely story!"

"But we can find out easily!" Lucius interrupted from somewhere above Hermione's head, over by the fire. She wondered how many times he'd watched his sister-in-law torture somebody in his drawing room. "Draco, fetch the goblin; he can tell us whether the sword is real or not."

Bellatrix set after Hermione's arm again while Draco ran off to fetch the goblin. She was slicing letters or runes or something into the flesh, carving them deeper now. Hermione moaned, trying not to scream.

Bellatrix carved deeper, knife hitting bone. Hermione screamed.

Hermione curled on her side, cradling her arm, and realized she'd rolled over into a pool of her own sick. Her skin crawled and she almost vomited again, but she didn't have the energy.

Bellatrix was questioning the goblin, Griphook, now. She'd handed the sword over but had him at wand-point.

"Well? Is it the true sword?" Bellatrix was practically standing on top of Hermione. If she could just work up the muster, all she had to do was roll sharply to the left and she could knock the witch down, maybe steal her wand.

"No," said Griphook after a long moment in which Hermione utterly failed to roll over. "It is a fake."

"Are you sure?" Bellatrix panted. "Quite sure?"

"Yes," said the goblin.

"Good," Bellatrix said, flicking her wand. A deep cut appeared on Griphook's face. Hermione found herself reciting ways to heal such a cut in her head. The goblin flinched back, surprised, and fell, yelling. Bellatrix kicked him out of her way. "And now, we call the Dark Lord!"

Without further ado, she pushed back her sleeve and touched the Dark Mark.

Hermione rolled onto her back, farther away from Bellatrix. She noted that the Malfoys were gathered near the fireplace, staring. They didn't seem to care that they hadn't been the ones to call their Lord anymore. Greyback was near the door to the cellar, arms folded across his chest, looking mean.

"And I think," Bellatrix said, almost flirtatious, "we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her."

"NO!"

Harry and Ron burst into the drawing room, shooting past Greyback before he realized where the shout had come from. Bellatrix swung her wand around to point at Harry instead of Hermione.

"_Expelliarmus_!" Dean Thomas roared, appearing in the doorway behind Ron and pointing an unfamiliar wand at Bellatrix. Harry caught Bellatrix's wand.

Everybody was shouting, cursing. Spells flew, crackling through the air. Hermione made it up to her hands and knees, then retched and had to stay still for a moment.

Something cold hit the back of her neck and she almost fell flat again, but then she realized the cold thing was a hand. She was wrenched to her feet by the neck of her robes. She felt back against a body as narrow as her own, though this one was much more stable than hers at the moment. The cold tip of the silver knife pressed to her throat.

"STOP OR SHE DIES!"

Harry and the others froze, panting. She sagged back, trying to make it more difficult for Bellatrix to hang onto her. Also, she couldn't really support her own weight at the moment. Her eyes kept sliding in and out of focus, and she couldn't make her eyelids open properly.

"Drop your wands," Bellatrix whispered. "Drop them, or we'll see exactly how filthy her blood is." A long pause. "I said, drop them!"

The blade pressed into her throat, and Hermione felt the warm trickle of blood down the side of her neck.

"All right!" Harry shouted, and wands clattered to the floor.

"Good," Bellatrix leered. "Draco, pick them up. The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!"

_Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. We can't fail now. This is a stupid, awful way to fail. Fuck._

Her train of thought wasn't particularly useful, at the moment.

"Now, Cissy, I think we ought to tie these little heroes up again, while Greyback takes care of Miss Mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you have done tonight."

Hermione felt a different kind of sick than she'd felt earlier. Tortured was one thing. Raped and/or eaten was another.

Behind her Bellatrix gasped, and Hermione's eyes finally flew open properly. Adrenalin burst through her, but it didn't do any good. She fell to the side when Bellatrix pushed her away. She could only watch, dumbly, as the chandelier fell from the ceiling and crashed in a mess of crystals and chains.

It hurt.

Then it was blackness.


	41. Chapter Forty

Severus sat back in his chair, put his feet on the ottoman, and closed his eyes, listening to the fire. He needed to relax. He needed to decompress. He hadn't dropped his Occlumency shields in ages, and he desperately needed to... but he didn't want to feel.

Merlin, but he wanted his wife. And not for sex, though sex would be nice. He just wanted to hold her. He missed her. He was miserable. He just wanted to have her close, to feel the warmth of her in the bed next to him, to hear her breathe in the night, to wake up with her hair in his face.

He went to his happy place. It was a mocking term, "happy place." Something his father had taunted him with when he'd caught Severus meditating when he'd first begun to teach himself Occlumency.

The mental construct of the meditation, the peaceful "place" he created in his mind, had changed over the years. When he'd begun, it had been him and Lily lying on a hill by their park on a sunny afternoon, before Hogwarts. It had been his private lab at Hogwarts for a time, chopping methodically and listening to a cauldron simmer, the vapors warming the air in the cool room. For a year or so, it had been Hermione, an overlay of perfect moments with her, looking into her eyes, feeling their minds embrace.

Then they'd had children. It was his best "happy place" yet, a memory. Dawn two days after the twins were born. He and Hermione had been exhausted, suddenly having three small children to take care of, but that morning had been perfect. They were spooned together, the bed made beneath them. His head was propped up on his elbow, her head was leant back against his chest. His other arm held her to him, their hands laced together over her stomach. The twins were finally asleep on the other side of the bed, their little fists clasped together. Bast knelt on the far side of the bed, his arms crossed and his chin propped on them, watching the girls. Dawn light had been streaming in through the sheer curtains, rimming everything in white.

The moment, the memory, didn't last long this time. He hadn't been able to think of it, to think of Hermione, for long since he'd heard the rumors without breaking. It was an effective way to remove his Occlumency shields before they shattered his mind again, though.

The Dark Lord had been furious after Easter. He'd been called to Malfoy Manor, told Potter had been captured but escaped before his arrival. Potter _and _Dumbledore's dragon. And a whole band of Snatchers were dead, and Wormtail.

Draco had returned from the holiday even more pale and terrified-looking than before. He walked the halls like the king of the ghosts, sneering and giving the children of Death Eaters orders like he should, but he was a husk.

_I've failed Draco, too_, Severus thought, but he was distracting himself.

There had been no word whatsoever about Hermione, or from her. He'd filled his palm with notes to her, but there had been no response. He'd looked, scoured the papers since he'd first heard the rumors. He'd checked the safe houses that he knew of. He couldn't even assume that no news was good news. He'd sent Phineas to his other portrait, but the former headmaster had yet to return.

\\\

The next morning at breakfast, one of the Carrows let something slip about how ill Draco looked since he and his family had been punished. Severus ignored it. Minerva heard, though, and went stiff beside him.

That afternoon, Hagrid pulled him aside. It was what he'd dreaded since the half-giant had figured things out. It was odd enough to see him in the castle, but having a whispered conversation with the dreaded headmaster as well?

"What are you thinking?" Severus snarled, throwing up every obscuring and distracting enchantment he could think of to keep others away from them.

"Is i' true?" Hagrid asked, very close to tears. "Wha' them Carrows were sayin' 'bout Harry?"

"I don't know," Severus admitted, clenching his fists. The last thing he needed was to be brought to tears himself. Hagrid _could not_ know about Hermione, not yet, not now. He couldn't know anything more than he already did. "There is only a rumor that Potter was at Malfoy Manor and escaped."

"Oh," Hagrid said, wiping away a few tears. Severus could feel his fingernails biting into his palms; there would be blood from them in a few minutes.

"I think," he said slowly, trying to settle his own worries as well as Hagrid's, "that if something had actually come of it, it would have been in the _Prophet_. It would have been reported. There would have been news, not just a rumor."

"Yer probly, righ'," Hagrid said, snuffling a bit but appearing to pull himself together. "O' course you are. O' course yer righ'."

Severus escaped quickly, his heart hammering in his chest. He certainly _hoped _he was right.

\\\

_Severus—_

_Join me at the London house as soon as you are able. Do not Floo in._

_—__Lucius _

The letter was written on a tattered corner of parchment, folded twice and sealed with a spell keyed to him. There had been no other charms on it, nor any hexes waiting to trip his fingers.

It was very odd.

Severus hadn't been to the Malfoy residence in London in ages. He knew for a fact that the place had been closed up after Lucius was put in Azkaban, the furniture covered and the Floo disconnected. (A family living in shame didn't keep a convenient house in the city in addition to the old family manor, after all.)

Clearly, the Dark Lord didn't know about this rendezvous. And "Do not Floo in."… Lucius knew that Severus knew the house had been disconnected from the Floo Network. A different message, then. Don't use any form of travel that could be traced.

_What the hell are you getting me into, Lucius?_

Nevertheless, within five minutes of receiving the letter Severus was leaving the caslte. On impulse, he stopped at Hagrid's hut and informed the half-giant that he would be out.

"Ov'r lunch?" Hagrid asked, furry eyebrows raised.

"It is not a… Summons. I don't know what it is."

"Be careful, then."

Severus nodded once and left before he could do anything stupid.

He Apparated to London, just outside the Leaky Cauldron. A few quick charms on his person to keep the Muggles away, and he strode down the street. The Malfoy house wasn't far; not a quick walk, but hardly more than a decent stroll considering the amount of walking he did (patrolling that vast castle had its benefits).

It was a stately thing with a yard full of dead plants. The shutters were closed. The whole thing had the general feel of neglect.

It felt like he was taking his life in his hands when he picked up the door knocker and let it fall twice. The sound seemed to echo, though there were plenty of other sounds. London over lunch hour; it was hardly quiet.

Surprisingly, there was no house elf magicking the door open, bowing and ushering him into a parlour. Lucius answered it himself, opening the door just a crack before stepping back far enough for Severus to enter.

"You look terrible," Severus said, though he hadn't meant to. At one point, a very long time ago, Lucius had been his friend. They'd been close enough that Severus was Draco's godfather. For just this moment, away from the Dark Lord and Hogwarts, Severus could almost forget that they weren't those young men anymore.

Lucius looked old; there was no other way to put it. He had lines on his face, and there were strands of gray-white in his hair. He looked pinched the way Draco did, only more so because he was still actively living with the source of the look. His robes were clean, though, if a bit rumpled.

"Hello, Severus."

Lucius led the way into the house. It was strangely like Grimmauld Place in many ways, with a long entryway sporting several narrow doors leading to the other rooms of the house. Severus had been here enough to know that the first door led to the formal sitting room, the second was an anteroom for the sitting room. The door on the other side went to the dining room. They continued past all the doors to the stairs at the back of the house, ascended to the third floor, entered Lucius's office.

"What's going on, Lucius?" Severus asked, tired of the farce. Lucius raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused. Severus almost scowled at him, but forced himself to remain neutral.

"Did you know that I've been visiting the Ministry?"

Severus shook his head, put a look of polite interest on his face, and settled in to be talked around to whatever Lucius had brought him here to say.

"I'm not officially an employee, of course. I was in Azkaban too recently for that." Just the slightest bitterness, there. _Sorry you got caught, Lucius?_ "I still have friends, though."

"It is good to have friends." _We used to be friends, which is the only reason I'm here at all. Get to the point, Lucius. The Carrows could have Longbottom hanging by his ankles in some forgotten broom cupboard by now._

"The Dark Lord feels that it's good I keep in touch with my friends, just in case something interesting comes up. And, as it happens, something interesting has come up."

_Something so interesting that you called me to your private house—a place you aren't even supposed to be—to tell me about it? And before you tell the Dark Lord, too, obviously. Otherwise I could have Apparated directly into your damn welcome room at the manor._

"Oh?"

"I have a cousin who works in the International office. He's not particularly bright, my cousin, but he's clever enough. You remember Benedict? He was in your year at Hogwarts."

"I remember him." Benedict Malfoy had all the ambition of Slytherin and none of the cunning. He'd spent hours strutting around their dormitory telling them about his plots and plans, none of which actually worked (often because one of his roommates sabotaged him). He'd also left his socks _everywhere_.

"He remembers you, too." There was a weighted moment in which Lucius looked Severus over shrewdly and Severus pretended to be bored. _What are you up to, Lucius?_ "So when an interesting case came across his desk, concerning a little boy who looked _remarkably _like you, he just had to get in on it. And tell me all about it, of course."

"What are you up to, Lucius?" He tried to make it sound like banter, like he was enjoying the setup to Lucius's obviously engaging tale, but he sounded too suspicious. He'd broken out in a cold sweat.

"What are _you_ up to, Severus?" Lucius smirked. "Do you know a family called Wilkins?"

"No," Severus said, because he didn't, but then he froze and looked Lucius in the eye, remembering. "… Yes."

"I thought you might."

They were silent for a moment. Severus resisted the urge to go for his wand, locking his fingers on the arm rests of his chair instead. Lucius was watching him, calculating, making decisions based on whatever he saw in Severus's face. Severus didn't know what he could see; he was Occluding fiercely. His face was blank.

"I've asked myself, so many times, whose side you're on, Severus. It all seemed so clear when we were younger, where the lines were drawn and who fell in with whom."

"_Everything_ seemed simpler when we were younger," Severus replied neutrally.

"That was before we had children."

"I beg your pardon?" _Impossible._

"After the Dark Lord… killed the Potters, when Dumbledore spoke for you, I realized that you could play both sides well enough that even I, one of your closest friends, couldn't tell where your loyalties lay. But I realized something else, too."

"I am loyal to the D—" He began, drawing himself up his his chair, ready to rise to a proper bluster, as appropriate for the current right hand of Lord Voldemort.

"You are loyal to you and yours, Severus." Severus narrowed his eyes, but didn't say anything. "There are three children in the room down the hall, the eldest of which is a boy who looks so much like you even my idiot cousin recognized him." Severus couldn't think of a thing to say. "I Obliviated Benedict, by the way."

"You—Lucius—what—?" _The children are just down the hall. _

"I don't know why and I don't know how, but you have three children, and you had them hidden away in Muggle Australia. No, no—" Lucius held up a hand, rising when Severus did. "Sit down, Severus, I want to make a deal with you."

Glaring, fists clenched, Severus sat.

"I'm not going to tell the Dark Lord. I'm not going to tell Narcissa. I'm not going to tell _anybody_. I'll even destroy the documentation of the incident." He was carefully looking at the bookshelf cabinet out of the corner of his eye, suggesting that the papers were probably _not_ in the cabinet. Probably in his desk. "All I ask in return is that you help Draco. Protect my son, Severus, and I'll save your children."

"Done," Severus said. He didn't even need to think. Of course he'd protect Draco, he'd do that anyway. He'd grown into a right ponce, but, if he came through the war, there might be hope for him. And he'd been a very sweet, if spoiled rotten, boy.

Severus kept his seat, eyes evaluating his old friend, wondering. Lucius obviously suspected him of playing both sides—getting children on a Muggle or Muggle-born to claim in the event that the Order triumphed, keeping them a secret from the Dark Lord in case _he _won. Or… No, Lucius knew. He _knew_ Severus was in love with the mother; it wasn't just one child, it was three. And he'd agreed to the terms too quickly, without even negotiating.

_This was why they were in Australia_.

"How," Severus began, but his voice cracked and he had to begin again; "How did…?"

_And what happened to my damned in-laws?_

_Oh, Merlin, had something happened to the Grangers?_

"That's a bit of a scandal, actually," Lucius said, leaning back in his chair and looking amused. "There was a car crash. The Muggles you left them with died, and the Australian Ministry of Magic realized there were British citizens living in their country under false pretenses, and three magical children under false identities. They didn't care about the Muggles, of course; I believe they're in a government morgue somewhere. The children were deported, though. Sent straight through the International office, where Benedict thought it was interesting how much they resembled you and brought it to my attention."

"A car crash." His children had been in a car crash. "Shit, I'm going to have to tell her they died."

Unless she was dead, too.

"Hm."

The Grangers' bodies would have to wait, though. He'd send a letter to the Atkinses.

"Where are my children, Lucius?"

Lucius's smile was triumphant. Snape prayed the older man's Occlumency was up to the task of keeping this secret. Otherwise he was dead. The children were dead. Even if he hid them again, hid them well, put every protection on them, they were all dead. And Hermione, too, most likely.

Unelss she was dead already.

He very likely might be sick all over the dusty rug if he didn't hold his children soon.

"Where are they?" _Stop looking smug and tell me!_

"They're right down the hall. Asleep." Lucius stood, and Severus all but leapt out of his chair. "They've had a very long week."

_Gods, a week. They've endured this upheaval for a week and I had no idea. Does Hermione know? Shit, did they see her wanted posters at the Minsitry?_

_Fuck. What if I have to tell them their mother is dead?_

And then Lucius dimmed the light in the hall so that he could open the door to Draco's old bedroom without spilling too much light inside and waking the children. Of course, Bast wasn't asleep.

The girls were curled up together on the bed, hands clasped like they'd done when they were babies. There was a conjured cot on the other wall, but the blankets were thrown down to the foot of the bed as if they'd been tossed off the moment the door had closed. Bast sat on the end of his sisters' bed instead, his hands clenched on the bed post as he glared at the door.

"Dad!"

And then his son was in his arms, and it was all he could do to keep from crying.

"I should Oblivaite you," he told Lucius, standing in the room while the other man stood in the doorway, watching with an odd look on his face. "I should Obliviate you right now."

"But then who would go remove the rest of the paperwork from good cousin Benedict's office for you? You certainly can't go with three young children to hide." It wasn't snide, or even particularly menacing. It was practical. And that look on his face was almost… sympathetic.

"Lucius…" He'd been trying for threatening, but it was impossible to be properly menacing while soothing his son, stroking his hair while the boy cried and clung. Severus realized he was shaking, and sat on the edge of the girls' bed.

"When this is all over," Lucius said quietly, half turned to leave the room. "Severus, when this is all over, I hope you tell me about your woman, how your family came to be."

"Thank you, Lucius. For my children."

Lucius nodded, and left them.

\\\

Severus got a patchy version of events from Bast over the next twenty minutes. The boy spent the time cradled in his lap like a toddler, though his limbs were much too long for it. (Gods, he'd grown at least two inches in the last few months.)

There had indeed been a car crash. They'd been grocery shopping. Another truck, a bigger truck, hit them head-on, and the Grangers had been killed instantly, the truck totaled. Bast had Apparated himself and his sisters, who'd been sitting on either side of him, to the side of the road. They were unharmed, but terrified.

The EMTs had assumed the children had been flung to safety in one of those fluke miracles. They'd been taken to the hostpital while the Grangers' bodies were extricated from what was left of the truck. The Australian Ministry had caught up to them at the hospital, and their documentation was revealed to be false. They'd spent the night in some sort of juvenile housing. Bast had been very confused, and he'd spent a lot of time holding his sisters' hands and refusing to let them out of his sight.

After two more nights in juvenile housing, the three of them had been sent to the Ministry in London via Portkey ("I puked everywhere, Dad. All over this grumpy wizard's shoes. Twice.") where they were questioned by Benedict Malfoy. And then they were brought to the strange house and put in the bedroom to rest.

"They died, didn't they?" Bast asked at the end of his tale. Severus nodded solemnly. He held Bast close and rubbed his back while he cried.

"Remember how your mum and I had to go away and finish some dangerous things?" Severus asked when Bast had quieted down.

"Yes."

"And how you were going to stay safe with your grandparents a long way away?"

"Yes."

"Now you're going to stay safe with me. But we have to be extra carefuly, because now you're not a long way away. We're in the middle of the dangerous things."

"I'm sorry."

"Sh, Bast. You don't need to be sorry. It's not your fault you're here. It just happened." He hugged his son tighter to his chest, putting his chin on top of the mop of curly black hair. The boy looked remarkably like him, down to the unfortunate nose, but his hair had all Hermione's curl. "And, truly, I'm glad you're here. I missed giving you hugs."

Bast giggled, which had been the point, and squeezed him back.

"Let's wake up your sisters, shall we?"

"Can we wait just a minute longer?"

"Of course."

He held his son until the boy was ready to share. Then they stood up, and Severus crouched down so that they faces were level.

"I'm proud of you, Bast. You've been very brave this week." He put his hands on his son's shoulders, rubbed his upper arms. Bast looked a bit bashful, which was all the more endearing. "I'm glad your sisters had you with them to protect them. You saved them."

"They're little."

"Yes." _And so are you, dear boy._

They left the privacy of the bedroom ten minutes later. Severus had a daughter on each hip, both of them clinging to him, fingers clenched in his robes, legs clamped around his waist. Bast walked just slightly behind, a fistful of robes so that Severus could feel the tug of it and know he was there. Lucius was sitting in the office down the hall, his chair facing the doorway so that he could watch for them.

Ideally, he'd have a hand free for his wand. Just in case. But the girls had only just stopped crying, and had refused to let him go. Bast was putting on a brave front, but his grip in Severus's robes made his opinion of their situation clear enough.

"Thank you, Lucius," Severus said, carefully making eye contact. Lucius was hard to read, especially now. The blond was looking over their little family framed in the doorway, contemplating them, and Severus had no idea if he was making plans to betray them or wondering if he should invite them to Christmas next year.

"I'll see you back in the real world, Severus." Lucius dismissed them by turning his attention to the papers on his desk, passing his wand over them a few times. Silvery steam was beginning to rise from the papers when Severus turned away.

They walked, slow and steady, down the stairs, down the hall, out the door. They walked down the block, ignoring the looks from the Muggles they encountered; it wasn't every day most of them saw a grown man in full robes, but Severus didn't give a damn. He would have transfigured them to fit in, but then Bast wouldn't have had anything to hang on to.

When they were a suitable distance from the Malfoy house, Severus Apparated them to Hogwarts. His private sitting room above the hedmaster's office, with its comfortable furniture and a fireplace full of warm, cheerful fire.

"Where are we?" Bast asked, looking around warily, his hand still tight in Severus's cloak.

"Hogwarts," Severus said, setting the girls down on the sofa so that he could put his hand on his son's head. "This is my sitting room at Hogwarts."

"Is this home? Mum said you lived at Hogwarts before you lived in Australia."

"It is home for now," Severus said. "When the w—when the fighting is done, we'll get a proper house like we had before."

"With a garden?"

"With a garden."

"Good. I liked having a garden."

Severus smiled. He hoped he'd be able to show Bast the Hogwarts greenhouses. And Hagrid's pumpkin patch full of those enormous pumpkins. Next fall? Could that be possible?

"How are you doing, girls? You've been awfully quiet."

"Okay," Sofia said.

"I'm sleepy," Ellie said.

"I suppose you're used to it being the middle of the night about now," he said, more thinking out loud than anything else. They'd been napping at the Malfoy house, after all. "Come on through here. This is the bedroom."

"There's just one?" Ellie asked. Severus noted that the twins were holding hands again as they followed him into the bedroom.

"Well, it was just me living here."

"Not Mum too?"

"Where's Mummy?"

"Mum is keeping her friend Harry safe."

"Why doesn't she keep him safe here?"

"Because they could find him if he was here."

"Who's _they_?"

"The bad guys?"

"Yes, the bad guys."

"The ones who gave you the tattoo?"

"Yes." Ellie and Bast both opened their mouths for more questions, but Severus held up a hand. "No more questions now. Everybody into bed."

The bed was large, almost opulent. He could fully stretch out any which way and still be comfortable, and he was quite tall. The three of them, Bast in the middle with a sister tucked securely on either side, were dwarfed by the bed. They settled on the pillows, and he tucked them in tight.

"The loo is through that door. I'll be back in the sitting room if you need me."

"You'll be there when we wake up?" Ellie asked. She was the quietest of the three, but she always seemed to be the one to ask the question they all wanted to know the answer to. He smiled and kissed them each one more time.

"Yes. I'll be here when you wake up."

There was a chorus of "I love you Daddy"s as he left the room, and he ached to turn around and spend the afternoon watching his children sleep. Watching over them.

Instead, he tried to think. The wards informed him that Poppy was alone in the hospital wing for the moment, though it was the middle of the day and that could change at any moment. He wanted to have her check them over sooner rather than later.

And Minerva. This changed things entirely, derailed most of the plans they'd considered from the safety of Kenilworth. They'd never planned on their children being in the fucking castle during the war. He needed an ally; besides, she was almost as connected to the wards at he was, it would only be a matter of time before she snuck in to investigate the presence of young children in the headmaster's suite.

What he really needed was to find Hermione. It had been more than a week, and he hadn't heard from her or the portrait he'd sent to find her. It had weighed on him before, but now he'd upgraded from "worry" into "panic."

"Tup!" he called, flicking his wand at the bedroom door to ward the sound out but let him hear any noise the children made. The little elf appeared immediately, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet at the pleasure of an opportunity to be of service.

"Headmaster wants Tup?"

"Yes. Tell Poppy that I'd like to speak to her in my office as soon as she can manage it. Then bring this to Minerva." He held up the vial containing the silvery wisp of a memory he'd retrieved from the felt bandolier it had been stored in for so long. "Put it in her office, on her desk where she'll see it when she walks in."

"Yes, Headmaster, sir."

Severus raised an eyebrow when the elf took the vial and the note explaining what it was, but didn't depart. "Was there something you wanted to say?"

"Yes, sir. Please, sir."

"Well?"

"May I take care of the babies, sir?"

"The babies?"

"Yes, Headmaster, sir. The babies. May I bring them foods and help them in the rooms?"

"Yes, that would be… convenient. Good. Yes. But not a word about any of them, Tup. Do you understand? Not anybody. Not even the other elves. In fact, until further notice, you are the only elf allowed in these chambers."

"Yes, Headmaster, sir," the elf said. The little thing was practically exploding with pride, being entrusted with 'the babies.' "Tup understands."

"Good. Off you go, then."

The elf went. Ten minutes later, the wards on his office told him that Poppy had just given the password and was on her way up. Drawing his robes around him for the sake of the portraits—he certainly didn't want Dumbledore catching wind of what was going on until he had an actual plan to present the portrait with—he stepped out onto the little landing at the top of the staircase and looked down at the room.

Poppy entered, her usual apron left behind in the hospital wing. She looked curious, but not worried. He figured she'd guessed that if there were a true emergency he would've had the elf bring her to him instantaneously.

Or maybe she just hated him that much. Maybe she'd happily watch him bleed out.

"Headmaster?" she asked, looking up at him from the center of the office. He wondered how old she was—surely she had a file around somewhere and he could look it up, but he'd never thought to. She'd been gray when he'd been a student, and he hadn't reevaluated her since. Older than Minerva, younger than Slughorn?

"Poppy. Please come up." He turned and went through the door to his sitting room. The portraits muttered a bit, but Poppy closed the door behind her and the noise was quickly cut off.

"Headmaster?" she asked, prompting him when he'd stood there in silence for too long. He had no idea where to begin.

He scrubbed his hands down his face. Feeling a bit useless, he Summoned a hair elastic (probably one of Hermione's) and jerked his hair back into a queue at the nape of his neck, firmly out of the way. Poppy openly gaped at him.

He didn't even know where to start. "It was planned," would be horrifyingly lame. She deserved better than that.

He opend his mouth to begin explaining—though he wasn't particularly sure what he was going to say—only to be interrupted by a twinge from the wards around his office and a shout from one of the portraits. He grabbed a photo ablum off the bottom shelf (where it had been disguised as a dusty old potions tome) and handed it to Poppy.

"I will explain," he said, but carried on past her back into the office. "What news?" he asked from the landing, looking over toward Phinaes's portrait. It was still empty.

Harry Potter was standing in the middle of the office, though. Or at least part of him was; the damned Invisibility Cloak covered him from the elbows down.

"Potter! Do you have _any_ idea how risky it is for you to be here?"

"It's Hermione, sir—"

"By the beard, man, can you do _nothing_ according to plan!" Armando Dippet, Dumbledore's predescessor, exclaimed.

"Shut up," Severus snarled at the portrait. Dippet blinked in an offended sort of way, but didn't leave the frame. (Things were too interesting and he didn't want to miss out, probably.)

"I told you your marriage was a horrible idea," Dumbledore began, looking at him down his nose. Severus glared back.

"_Not a word_."

"What is this?" Poppy asked, coming out of his rooms to stand on the landing. She had the album open in her hands, then dropped it with a hard _thunk_ when she saw Harry.

_It's never just one thing_.

"Snape. _Please_," Potter said. Every eye in the room trained on him. "Hermione is hurt. Cursed. Bill Weasley stopped it spreading, but he hasn't been able to break it. I think she might be dying."

"Show me," Severus said, pointing his wand at the boys face. "_Legilimens_."

Where Potter looked hungry and ill, like a strong breeze would knock him over, Hermione looked skeletal in the memory. There was a flash of memory, a band of Snatchers attacking a tent. Hermione making him unrecognizeable with a Stinging Hex, Malfoy Manor. Greyback said foul things, and then Potter lost his focus and the memory flipped back to the first time he'd seen Greyback in Knockturn Alley.

"Focus," Severus muttered. Potter strained to show him what he needed.

Hermione near-collapsed against Bellatrix Lestrange, a knife at her throat. The chandelier falling. Then a cottage on the coast, Weasleys everywhere, and everybody hovering over Hermione.


	42. Chapter Forty-One

Her lower back ached like it had when she'd been pregnant to bursting with the twins. The muscles of her left leg were twitching, too. Otherwise she was very relaxed, almost limp. It was muscle relaxant-limp; she'd been given a potion to ease the post-Cruciatus tremors, then. That was good.

Severus's large, warm hand settled just where she needed it at the small of her back, fingertips pressing in on either side of her spine. For a moment, she was sure she was dreaming. But she hurt too much for it not to be real. She groaned.

"What was that? Is she dying?"

That was Harry. His voice was thready with panic. That explained Severus's presence; he was the only one who knew.

"I'm not dying," she muttered roughly.

Severus brushed her mind, and she managed a weak, fluttery response. She wasn't in full mental form, apparently. Not surprising after the battering her Occlumency shields had taken at the manor.

He presented her with an image of a battered Bellatrix sitting stiffly, resentfully at the far end of a long black table. She'd been thoroughly punished, it seemed.

"I should feel bad that that makes me feel better," she said to Severus, trying to roll over. He kept her on her back, though, preventing her from turning. He kept up the gentle massage; the ache continued to ease away.

"I was sorry I wasn't the one to do it," he admitted quietly.

She wondered who else was in the room.

"Do what?" Ron. He sounded vaguely accusing. That made at least Ron and Harry watching. Were there others? Where were they? How did they get away?

"How are you here?" she asked. "_Where_ is here?"

Severus finally let her sit up, and Harry gave her a quick summary. Dobby had responded to a desperate plea from Harry and died for his efforts. She'd had a chandelier dropped on her. They'd ended up at Shell Cottage, Bill and Fleur Weasley's house. Fleur had seen to the scrapes and bruises and given her the muscle relaxant for the tremors. Harry had gone to get Severus when Bill hadn't been able to remove the curse from her leg after a day.

She sighed and scrubbed her hands over her face, then jerked her hair back into a twist, securing it with the broken quill Severus produced from a pocket. She smiled at him.

"Hello, Sev," she said, pecking him on the cheek. "I missed you."

He smiled back at her, lacing his fingers through hers. He looked down, braced himself, then met her eyes again.

_There was a car accident. _

_Okay._

_In Australia._

_In—!_

_I'm so sorry. Your parents are dead._

She waited for an emotional response, anything. There was anxiety, and her heart clenched a bit, but something told her the sadness would come later.

_Severus… the— _She swallowed. _I should be devastated, right? They were my parents._

_I'm not the one to ask. I hated my parents._

_Maybe I'll feel it later? Right now I'm just worried about—_

_The children are alright. Sleeping when I left. _

_Are they really alright? After all that—not just the crash, but being Malfoy and the—_

_For now, they're just exhausted._

_What if they wake up and you're not there?_

_Tup will come get me the moment they begin to wake._

_Tup?_

_One of the Hogwarts elves._

She nodded. _How are we going to do this? We never even close to planned for this._

_We've deviated from almost every plan Dumbledore had, and every plan we had, in almost every way possible._

_Such rebels_. She rolled her eyes.

"You're hilarious," he said dryly.

"What just happened?" Ron asked.

"Er. Legilimancy." The conversation had been quick as thought, of course. (It _had_ been thought.) To the others, it would look like they'd been holding hands and staring at each other, and that he didn't believe she'd missed him.

"How?"

"_Simultaneous_ Legilimency."

"That's not helping."

"They were reading each others' minds."

"Bill?"

"Cool," Ron said.

"I thought I heard your voice. It's good to see you with your eyes open."

"Thank you for hiding us."

"How are you feeling, dear?" Poppy said, bustling in with a tray of potions.

"Brilliant," Hermione said warily, eyes on the potions. She didn't feel like she needed any potions; the muscle relaxant was doing its work, and Severus had removed the nasty that had been making her leg and back hurt. Then she saw that the potions on the tray were those most commonly used for malnutrition, and she frowned. "I don't need—"

"Hermione, for _once_," Severus began, but Hermione shot him a look.

"I'm not malnourished. Meals have been meager, but it's stress."

"That's nice, dear," Poppy said, handing her the first of the potions. She stared at her blandly until Hermione downed it. "And the next one."

"Thank you, Poppy," Hermione said when she'd finished. Poppy nodded, business-like, her eyes darting down to where Hermione's fingers were still tangled with Severus's.

"I think it's time for the explanation, _Headmaster_," Poppy said, Vanishing the tray. The feel of the room changed as everybody's attention focused in on them.

"The short version?" Severus said, the flippant tone entirely belied by his grip on her hand. "We had a Time Turner."

"They married last Christmas before Hermione came back to Hogwarts," Harry said. He was off to one side grinning, looking much too happy with himself to be the one in on the secret. Of course, he was usually the last to be told anything, so she couldn't really blame him for enjoying the novelty.

"You handed me a photo album with pictures of children," Poppy said.

"You gave me Blood Replenishing Potion the night Dumbledore died, and I didn't think of it. When I realized I was pregnant, we used the Time Turner—actually, we _broke_ the Time Turner. We went back further than we'd planned—"

"What about Dumbledore?" Bill interrupted. He was leaning against the door jamb, arms folded, tense.

"It was planned," Hermione said.

"You saw it," Bill said, turning to Harry. "You said it was murder, out and out."

"I saw what they _wanted_ me to see."

"You know perfectly well that removing his arm wouldn't stop the curse. He was dying. It was slow and painful," Hermione said, glancing from Bill to Poppy. "He wanted to put his death to use."

_The selfish wanker._

Severus snorted at the thought, and she squeezed his hand. Bill and Poppy shot him looks for the inappropriate laughter. He narrowed his eyes at her, then rolled them when Bill stood up from the door jamb, half going for his wand.

"I made an Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa Malfoy, swearing to help her son kill the headmaster or do it for him if and when it came to it. I discussed it with Dumbledore. He decided that it was more strategically important for me to uphold the Vow. The curse would've killed him before the summer was out," Severus said. His voice was calm, but his shoulders had tensed. Hermione squeezed his hand again.

"Strategically important?" Bill sneered. Poppy was nodding, though.

"He was dying. There is no arguing that."

"He chose the means of his death," Severus said. "Most of us don't get to do that."

There was a very tense moment. Bill frowned. Poppy had her hands clenched in front of her. Ron was looking from face to face, obviously wondering who would hex first. The look on Harry's face reminded her strangely of Dumbledore—conflict boiling over around him while he looked on like it was his favorite soap opera on the telly.

"So what happens now?" Bill finally asked.

Hermione hadn't realized she was holding her breath until Severus let his out.

* * *

He liked to think that he had absolute control of his temper. It had run him when he was a teenager, led him to the sort of trouble he was still paying for decades on. He liked to think he'd learned his lesson.

Yet when the wards alerted him the Carrow had closed his office door with a female student, directly after dinner, entirely outside office hours… Irate didn't begin to cover it. And not only because it was partially his own fault for missing breakfast, missing that daily dose of impotence potion in Carrow's pumpkin juice. Not only because his bloody daughters were in the castle.

He left Shell Cottage with a bang after a too-brief goodbye. The door slammed shut behind him and he Disapparated the moment he crossed the line of the wards.

Naturally, Minerva was standing outside his office, empty vial in hand, indecision practically etched into her skin.

"It can wait," he told her shortly. She glared, but he was already striding away.

She followed him, of course.

"Carrow," he said, knocking as he opened the door. "Miss Hamilton. What a surprise. I do apologize for interrupting, but you'd better return to your dormitory. I need to speak with Professor Carrow."

Hamilton had been chosen as Head Girl because she was a very safe choice. Ravenclaw, excellent marks, no discipline issues. And her parents were half-bloods, but her paternal lineage gave her a pureblood name. Politically safe.

If there hadn't been a war, it would have been Hermione. No question.

"Yes, Headmaster," the girl said. She ran for it. Smart girl.

"We've talked about this," Severus said, rounding on Carrow. Carrow just smirked. "She is a child."

"She's of age."

"She is your student," Severus snarled, but Carrow shrugged. "If you cannot behave as a professor of this school, I will be forced to request a replacement." Carrow paled, and Severus decided to leave it at that.

He wasn't surprised that Minerva was just outside the door, out of sight but clearly eavesdropping. He glared at her for form's sake.

She didn't follow him back to his office like he'd hoped she would, but Poppy was waiting for him there.

"The children are fine," she said, fussing with her kit. He had to sit down. "Just worn out, the little dears."

"What children?" Dumbledore's portrait asked. Poppy raised her eyebrows, looking over at him.

"He doesn't know?"

"Considering how well he took my marriage—"

"He didn't know you were married?"

"We never told Dumbledore since we knew he wouldn't approve." He glanced up at the portrait, seeing a familiar narrowing of the eyes. "The spy and that assassin. Bedfellows best avoided."

"I'd suspected you were together after watching you tend to—" She cleared her throat. "—after watching you tend to Dumbledore's arm together."

"We were married by then. The Christmas before that."

"I thought I must have been mistaken when…"

"She knew it was coming."

Poppy nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"Hermione was pregnant that summer. That was why we decided to use the Time Turner; we couldn't—it would've been—"

"I understand."

He nodded. "It's good that we did. We needed the time. I wasn't in a good place after—" He had to pause to clear his throat. "After killing the headmaster. It gave us years away from this… _shit_."

"And the children?"

"Hidden away in Australia. Ideally, nobody would know about them. Not even the portraits." A few of the portraits in question shifted uncomfortably, faces set stubbornly as if they were prepared to shout at him if he tried anything. That was not a fight he planned to have, though. "Things have gone off-plan, though."

"You said there was an accident?"

"They were staying with Hermione's parents. There was a car crash and they were killed. Bast Apparated the twins out of the truck."

"That's horrible." Poppy sank down on the nearest chair.

"And now they're here," he said, rubbing his forehead. "I can't send them away, but the castle is not a safe place."

Poppy surprised him. She got up, walked around the desk, and hugged him. It was like it always had been, only he wasn't sure he could remember if she'd ever hugged him before.

"How long have they been here?"

"A few hours. I called you as soon as we arrived back."

"Back?"

Quickly, Severus outlined the story for her. Their shuffle through the International Office, Malfoy's intercession.

"I wouldn't've expected him to be helpful."

"Helping me is to his advantage," Severus said. They'd settled on the velvet-upholstered sofa near the fireplace in the alcove off the main office. "If the Dark Lord triumphs, Lucius will have invaluable information on me. His position will rise, my position will fall. If the Order triumphs, he's able to say that he helped me when I needed it."

"Conniving."

"Yes. Lucius has always liked politics."

"It's done in either case."

"Yes, and now here we are."

"And Minerva as well," Severus said, standing when the wards alerted him to her presence. She was in her cat form, surely, otherwise there was no way she'd be able to make such quick work of the stairs. "She may be on her way to try to kill me again."

"_Again_?"

"Oh, yes. She's tried twice. Fiitwick had a half-hearted attempt just before I went to Australia." He glanced at her, shrugged. "It means that I'm playing my part in all this well."

"Too well," Poppy said, frowning.

"Poppy." Minerva's voice was cold. "Are you hurt? Ah, ah, ah!" He'd begun to turn, slowly, but Minerva pressed the tip of her wand into the side of his neck. "Hands where I can see them, Snape."

He hadn't heard her voice so cold since he'd known her.

"Minerva!" Poppy snapped. "I promise you, all is not as it appears."

"Imperiusing the staff now?" Minerva asked him snidely. He'd turned full to face her now. Her eyes were cold, the lines of her face deep and shadowed in the dim light.

"No," he said simply, careful not to move. He kept his expression blank, neutral. "Poppy? Would you please Summon that photo album I showed you?"

She did, then held it out to Minerva. Warily, his deputy drew back from him and looked down at the book. She gasped, grabbing the book, flipping quickly through the pages.

"Is this somehow supposed to explain anything?" Minerva asked. She'd taken a few steps away from him, giving herself more time to react if he tried anything. He just stood there, wand away, waiting.

"As you remember now, you were the witness at my wedding." He spoke slow and low, calmly. He wanted to shake her; she was being ridiculous. "We removed the memory because Dumbledore didn't know and wouldn't have approved—hell, his portrait circles back to his disappointment in us whenever he runs out of things to talk about."

"I certainly do not!" Dumbledore's portrait said, back stiff, beard twitching.

"As if he ever runs out of things to talk about," one of the other portraits muttered sullenly. It made a few of the others laugh, and Dumbledore scowled at them.

"His portrait is awake," Minerva whispered, looking at the painted Dumbledore as if it had just turned her world on its ear.

"Of course it's bloody awake. How else do you think—?"

"And he talked to you? To _you_?"

"Minerva," he groaned, rubbing at his face. He'd hoped she would put the memory back in place and reason a few things out.

"Get up, Poppy. We're leaving." She said it like she'd just been waiting for him to be distracted and she'd found her opportunity. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Don't be absurd, Minerva," Poppy said, crossing her arms. She was using her matron voice, the one that kept students from sneaking out of the hospital wing and made grown men sit still even when she applied stinging antiseptic. "Put your wand away, sit down, and hear him out."

Minerva finally began to waver. Her wand didn't leave him, but her elbow unlocked.

"Let's have a pot of tea," Poppy suggested, walking back towards the alcove where they'd been sitting earlier.

"Please, Minerva," he said. She glanced behind him at the portrait. He looked, too, and wanted to hex it when he realized the old man was feigning sleep again.

Minerva didn't put her wand away, but she sat in the empty wingback and watched he and Poppy doctor their tea.

"You have two minutes to explain," she said when they were all seated.

"He was dying. You knew that," Poppy said.

"I can't believe you put Hermione through all that," Minerva said, not looking at Poppy.

"She knew it was coming."

"Dumbledore—"

Severus rolled his eyes and interrupted her by striding over and rattling the frame of the 'sleeping' headmaster. "Dumbledore. Get up and explain yourself. I'm tired of doing it, and nobody ever believes me the first time anyway. There is too much to be done to waste time on—_wake up you infernal thing_."

Phineas hooted with laughter.

"All right, all right," Dumbledore said, making shooing motions with his painted hands. They were both pale and long and thin, no hint of the gray bruise darkness that had defined his last months. "Minerva…"

The portrait explained, and then was mostly silent while Severus told her how his children had come to be in the bed upstairs.

"You're a dead man," Poppy said, nibbling the corner of a biscuit the house elves had sent along with their second tea tray.

"If the Dark Lord triumphs, most definitely. If we will, I will owe Lucius. He has the Dark Lord living in his house; I believe he's beginning to hope… well." Severus selected a tiny triangular cucumber sandwich for himself, wishing he'd had the forethought to request an actual meal. "You've both seen Draco this term. So has Lucius."

They were quiet a moment. Severus put the whole sandwich in his mouth and remembered he didn't like cucumbers. He washed it down with a gulp of too-hot tea, then startled when Minerva burst out laughing only to clap a hand over her mouth.

"I spend most of my time talking the Carrows out of raping or maiming the students," he said when he realized Minerva wasn't going to say anything further. "Eventually I'll overstep myself. Or a thousand other things could go wrong."

"_Raping_ the—" Poppy started, but Severus kept talking. Minerva just looked grim.

"I'm deviating," he said, leaning forward and looking at the two witches he'd known for the better part of his life. "Dumbledore had the next stages of the war planned out. Harry had his task. I had mine. Now my children are here, and I don't… I can't run by that plan anymore.

"We need to end it sooner—as soon as possible. Potter was captured over Easter; they just barely escaped." He glanced at Poppy. She was nodding, looking down into her teacup instead of at him. "It can't go on like this. _I_ can't go on like this."

Hermione and Poppy had both check him for ulcers. He hadn't had any, but that only meant that the sick feeling was coming from his soul instead of his actual guts.

"I assume Potter escaped?" Minerva asked, tense, fingers clenched around her teacup. Severus blinked, realizing he'd skipped over that part of the story.

"He's with Bill Weasley," Poppy said quietly. "He's fine. It was Hermione that—"

Minerva's focus swung over to him, intense. He worried she might break the teacup. "Is she alright?"

"She'll be fine," Poppy said, settling back more comfortably in her chair. Severus fidgeted with his teacup. "She _will_ be, Severus. I checked her over myself, and she was already up and around before I left."

"That's… good."

"_This_ is why," Dumbledore's portrait said, making Poppy jump. Severus frowned, looking over at the portrait and raising an eyebrow. "This is why I told you it was a bad idea. You're not thinking clearly."

"I will bring out the turpentine, insights be damned," Severus said. It was more of a mutter than anything else; he didn't have the energy to be properly threatening. He was suddenly exhausted.

\\\

Poppy left a short time later. There weren't any students in the hospital wing, but curfew was approaching and it was just before curfew that students snuck in to see her for a vial of Dreamless Sleep or, in the worst cases, a muscle relaxant.

"Come," Severus said softly to Minerva after Poppy had gone, and he led the way up the stairs to his private sitting room. He knocked on the low table to order a proper dinner, then cracked the bedroom door the check on the children.

Bast was still in the middle. He'd kicked off the blankets, too hot with two sisters nestled in on his sides. Severus silently crossed the room and put the blanket back in place. Bast stirred only enough to smile sleepily at him before drifting back to sleep. Severus stroked his son's hair a moment before remembering he had an audience and hurrying back out to the sitting room.

"If anything happens to me," he said, looking at the fire instead of the Head of Gryffindor, "hide them. If something happens, get them out. Make Lucius think I hid them away…"

"Minerva?"

She sighed, and settled in front of his low table with the supper the house elves had delivered before she spoke again. "We were so awful to you. You'd just done what he asked, and we—and I—" She suddenly looked up at him, eyes wide. "I tried to _kill_ you, Severus."

"That means I played my part well. You were _supposed _to be awful to me."

"And Hermione knew the whole time?"

"Yes."

"The poor thing. Oh, Severus, you should have seen her cry the night Albus died!"

_She was crying for me more than for him. She hated him, hates him. Like I do._

"I didn't—" Minerva said, looking down at her hands clenched in her lap. "She was fussing with a hangnail; soon it would bleed. "Why didn't you—?"

"Minerva," Severus said, trying to decide how to say what needed to be said. "Hermione was the only one who knew what Dumbledore asked me to do."

He let that hang for a moment.

"She was my Healer. We weren't supposed to… love each other. We were supposed to work together. She'd patch me up and send me back.

"You know she's skilled with mind magic, a Legilimens. When you get two Legilimenses in the room together—well. _You_ try not falling in love with somebody when you can see their whole mind spread out in front of you, read their trials in their skin, hear the echoes of their emotions in their psyche just with eye contact." He took a deep breath. He hadn't meant to say any of that. He looked Minerva in the eye as he continued, glad once again that she wasn't a Legilimens herself. "Also, she can hold up her own end of a conversation. And she makes adorable babies, as it turns out."

He hadn't meant to say that last part, either. It just slipped out.

He could see the questions boiling behind her eyes. She wanted to ask him everything, she wanted to sit him down and make him explain it all from the beginning in minute detail.

Severus sighed, scrubbed his hands roughly over his face—he was beginning to get stubbly.

"How? How could you do it?"

"What, specifically?"

"All of it."

_Oh, is that all?_ "Occlumency, mostly. I've gotten very good at presenting the front I need to over the years. Doing my feeling later, in private."

"But… Dumbledore—"

"Asked me to. No, actually, he _ordered _me to." He pushed his hair back from his face and glared at the fire a moment before speaking again. "I tried to… Well. I didn't want to, I tried—I asked to be done, actually. I asked him, on several occasions, if I could just… leave. I didn't want to do it any more."

"Because of Hermione."

"Yes and no." The Vow would have killed him if he left. He would have lost Hermione, then. He'd just been miserable. "Mostly I had just reached my saturation point." He shrugged. "None of it was pleasant, from the moment the Dark Lord returned. I never expected it to be, mind, but… The prospect of going on without Dumbledore after _killing_ him, even if I knew it was what he wanted me to do and Hermione would know... Well." He shrugged again. "_You _know what I mean. Carrying on in this school without Dumbledore, such an impossible thought."

They carefully didn't look at each other for a long moment. The portrait downstairs was heavy on both their minds.

"I'm sorry, Severus," Minerva said eventually. "I know you were… I know it was impossible…" She sighed, collected herself, started again. "You are a very good liar. And thank you, because you've saved us all so far with it. But I'm still sorry I fell for it."

"I'm glad you did," he said quietly, staring at the teapot instead of looking at her. "It would have been harder. Hell, it _was_ harder." He smirked at her. "Hagrid figured it out when I sent those three to detention in the forest with him." Minerva glared at him, but he just raised an eyebrow. "The Carrows thought it was an awful punishment, but I'm fairly certain they all went for a nice walk."

"A picnic, actually," Minerva said. "Hagrid cooked."

"Maybe more of a punishment than I'd intended, then." They shared a smile. He'd missed this; the camaraderie.

"So Hagrid knows."

"Yes. And he's almost given me away more times that I care to think about." He rolled his eyes and sat back. It was nice to talk about it. "He _smiles_ at me when he thinks nobody's looking."

Minerva actually threw her head back and laughed. "Dear Hagrid," she said. "Dear, dear Hagrid."

"We named our son after him, actually," Severus said, glancing back at the door to the bedroom. "Sebastian Rubeus. We call him Bast."

"Bast," Minerva echoed. He glanced at her, then away. He knew she'd been married once, when she was young, before she'd come to Hogwarts. He wondered if she'd had children; he'd never asked her.

"And the twins," he continued. "Sofia Minerva and Elaine Poppy. They're identical, but only when you look at them. Sofia is the mouthpiece of the pair. She came into the world squalling and hasn't stopped since."

"I don't know what to say," Minerva said after a moment.

"You're… important, Minerva," he said slowly, still not quite able to look at her.

"Oh, shut up." He was glad that she was as uncomfortable as he was. "Give me a hug."

She was taller than Hermione, willowy. She hugged him like she meant it, and he hugged her back.

They separated and sat back down. They talked for a long time. They compared notes on the political situation of the world, the oppressive lives of those at Hogwarts. They talked about the Order, and Hermione and Harry. They talked about the children and Australia and Hermione's parents.

* * *

**A/N: I'm off to work now and if I have an inbox overflowing with reviews when I get home, I'll post the next chapter before I go to bed tonight!**

**Cheers!**

**—M**


	43. Chapter Forty-Two

_Is the Dark Lord abroad?_ Hermione wrote, then sat back to wait for his reply. She'd just had an interesting conversation with Griphook and she was fairly sure that, if Voldemort was out of the country, she might just survive it.

_As far as I know, yes_, he wrote back after ten minutes. She'd almost fallen asleep. _Why?_

_I need the data for an equation_, she wrote, then felt guilty for not giving him the whole truth. _We're planning something risky, but it will go much better if he isn't just around the corner._

_I don't like it._

_The numbers are good._

_I still don't like it._

\\\

They wanted to break into Gringotts. They had an almost viable plan, too. Except they had Bellatrix's wand but no Bellatrix. And no exit strategy.

"Yeah, but you could do a spell or something. Make it _look_ like she was with us," Harry said with such conviction she almost believed it.

Instead, she left Shell Cottage under the cover of night. The boys planned to make their move the next afternoon, but she would finish it before then.

She dressed in plain dark robes and only brought Bellatrix's wand (everything on her would be confiscated), and Apparated to Diagon Alley. Fred and George's shop was dark, as were most of the storefronts. Fortescue's and Ollivander's were notably empty. Not just empty, but destroyed. There were empty wand boxes spilled out the window of the wand shop.

Gringotts looked the same as it always did. Monolithic. White.

The goblins watched her warily from the moment she stepped through the door. Her wanted poster hung on the wall, but she'd lost so much weight from the time on the run that she almost could've made a case for not being the one in the picture. She knew she looked emaciated, and then there were the deep bruises of eye sockets. That was why the goblins were watching her, of course; she had the look of somebody on the run, and that sort of person wasn't welcome in upstanding banking establishments.

There were three witches and a wizard in the lobby. One witch took one look at her and ran for the exit. The wizard stopped what he was doing and stared.

The goblin clerk she went to, Bogrod, knew the wand had been stolen. Maybe she was just being paranoid, but she was sure he knew. It was the way his eyes crinkled when he said, "This way, ma'am." He was looking forward to trapping her in some awful security measure (Bill had given them a summary, mostly trying to dissuade them from the plan).

She followed Bogrod out of the lobby, past a wizard in dark robes asleep in a chair, and to the familiar little cart. Bogrod sat in front, Hermione sat in back. She kept Bellatrix's wand out, holding it loosely on her lap like she'd forgotten it was there.

With a jerk the cart moved off, gathering speed. They began twisting and turning through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downwards all the time. She couldn't hear a thing over the rattling of the cart on the tracks.

In no time at all, they were deeper than Hermione had ever penetrated within Gringotts; they took a hairpin bend at speed and saw ahead of them, with seconds to spare, a waterfall pounding over the track. Her heart raced, but the cart went through the water and carried on. She spluttered, glaring at the goblin. Bogrod looked back at her, disappointed. Neither of them said anything.

The cart carried on, twisting and turning, slowing down at last. They came to a halt at a decorative landing of sorts, a marble platform for disembarking the cart with a carved stone railing to hold onto. She didn't touch the railing, Bill's warnings echoing in her ears. Again, Bogrod looked disappointed.

"Lead on," she instructed him sourly, rolling her eyes when his back was turned.

The goblin stooped and retrieved a leather bag. Something metal clinked when he picked it up. She held the wand more tightly in her fist.

They turned the corner and there it was. A gigantic dragon was tethered to the ground in front of them, barring access to four or five of the deepest vaults in the place. The beast's scales had turned pale and flaky during its long incarceration under the ground; its eyes were milky pink; both rear legs bore heavy cuffs from which chains led to enormous pegs driven deep into the rocky floor. Its great spiked wings, folded close to its body, would have filled the chamber if it spread them, and when it turned its ugly head toward them, it roared with a noise that made the rock tremble.

Bogrod didn't even blink. He dropped the leather bag and pulled out a small metal instrument that made loud, ringing noise like miniature hammers on anvils when he shook them.

"Come along," Bogrod said, shaking the thing. The noise echoed off the rocky walls, grossly magnified, so that the sound might as well have been coming from inside her own head.

The dragon let out a hoarse roar, then retreated. She could see it trembling. As they drew nearer she could see scars made from vicious slashes across its face and guessed that it had been taught to fear hot swords at the sound of the metal instruments. It was cruel.

Bogrod pressed his palm to the wood of a vault door, and it melted away to reveal a cave-like opening crammed from floor to ceiling with golden coins and goblets, silver armor, the skins of strange creatures—some with long spines, others with drooping wings—potions in jeweled flasks, and a skull still wearing a crown.

"After you," Hermione said. Bill had warned her about that little trick too.

With bad grace, Bogrod stepped into the vault and crossed his arms over his chest. He glared at her while she slowly made her way in and crossed the threshold without taking her eyes off him. Of course, the moment she was through there was a muffled clunk from behind her: The door had reappeared, sealing her inside the vault. It was complete darkness.

_Lumos_.

Bogrod was gone.

Hermione shone her wand around the vault: Its beam fell on glittering jewels, Severus's copy of the Sword of Gryffindor.

She was careful not to touch anything. She stood where she'd been when Bogrod closed the door and shone her wand around. It was likely Hufflepuff's cup was somewhere in the vault, possibly the Ravenclaw item as well.

There were coils of chain, shields, goblin-made helmets set on shelves rising to the ceiling. Useless, pointless, pretty things.

There.

A little golden cup that sparkled in her wandlight.

There was a noise on the other side of the door. The dragon roared, and the metal instruments clanked.

"Well, shit."

It was all going to plan, but her plan really sucked.

The cup screamed when the fiendfyre consumed it. There was a swirl of thick, black _something_ that filled the room, drowned out her wandlight, and then nothing. It was silent. It was dark.

And then the vault door opened.

"_Expelliarmus_."

The wizard in dark robes who had been sleeping in the chair was tall, lanky, youngish. He had a handsome face and an ugly bowl haircut.

There was a mad moment where Hermione wondered if she could use the dragon to her advantage. Maybe she could ride it out? Free it, leap onto its back… But she didn't have a wand, and she didn't have backup. It was just her and no wand—she could cast a Shield Charm well enough wandless, but recent events had only reinforced how not-combat-ready her wandless magic was.

"Shit," she said again. It made the wizard smirk.

\\\

She ended up in a cage. First at the Ministry, in a holding cell all her own because she wasn't just _any_ unregistered Muggle-born. Then, it was a cage at Malfoy Manor, outside around the back of the house.

She wished she could've kept her cool and stared out over the lovely grounds or some such, but she huddled in the corner of her cage, covered her head with her arms, and tried to remember if it was physically possible to shake to death. She didn't think so, but she felt like she might rattle apart from her own trembling.

They left her alone. Utterly alone. It was just her and the bars of the cage, the cold, and her _stupid_ mind that wouldn't stop. She crouched in her corner in her cage, and she wondered if Severus would remarry when she was dead. She wondered if Harry and Ron would try to get into Gringotts without her. Perhaps Harry would die in the attempt (he was so good at antagonizing dragons, after all), and then there would only be the two Horcruxes left. She tried very hard not to think about Bast or Sofia or Ellie, but she utterly failed.

The only thing she didn't do was cry.

She sat in the cage for hours, until it was nightfall again. It was cold. She couldn't feel her toes or move her hands properly.

There was no way she could win even her first fight. Hell, she didn't _want_ to win a fight. It was guaranteed to be more brutal than Bird's had ever been—Remy Bird had been in it for the money, winners survived; these were Death Eaters in it for sport, even the winners would bleed.

It was Bellatrix that dragged her into the arena—a large muddy pit behind a screen of leafy shrubs trimmed into the shapes of animals—by the hair. She expected to be insulted, slapped around, but after one last yank, sending her to her knees on a patch of mostly frozen mud, the other witch sauntered out of the arena.

Hermione looked up, then vomited.

She'd expected an enormous man, possibly an out-of-favor Death Eater or a Snatcher trying to be noticed. Instead it was a child, not even old enough for a Hogwarts letter. He was maybe 10, or a tall 9. Blond hair, brown eyes, pale skin. He was shivering from the cold, his lips blue.

The boy didn't look a thing like Bast—in fact, he looked enough like a Malfoy for her to wonder if Lucius was being punished—but he was so small and so scared.

Somebody was talking. A big, booming voice. She could hear his excitement.

"Undesirable Number Two, the dragon herself," the voice said, winding up to the big finish. "Hermione Granger."

She looked up into the stands, searching for the speaker, and she saw Severus. His eyes were locked on her. All the blood had drained out of his face. Even from the distance, she could see the white-knuckle grip he had on his wand.

She should've told him "Don't," or "I'll be fine," but she couldn't.

One of the Lestrange brothers (she couldn't remember the wanted posters well enough to tell which) had been speaking. When he finished his introduction and looked down at her, the arena was utterly silent.

* * *

**A/N: You guys are awesome.**


	44. Chapter Forty-Three

The silence rang around the arena. The people in the stands—a few bleacher-like assemblies ringed around three sides of the pit—shifted eagerly. She couldn't tell if they were anticipating brutality, or if they were looking forward to the part where she refused to kill a child and then Lestrange made a public spectacle out of her death.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit_.

She looked across the audience, trying not to make it too obvious that she was looking for Severus. He was gone.

_Shit_.

"You don't like this one?" Lestrange asked, almost playfully. "Fine." He shrugged theatrically. "We'll get you a new one."

A flash of green and the boy was dead at her feet. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she might've screamed. Bellatrix cackled.

Before another was brought out, the Dark Mark erupted in the sky above the arena. There was a moment of baffled stillness, then chaos. Ministry officials (she recognized Thicknesse, Umbridge, others whose names she didn't know) scrambled for the exits. They had to keep up appearances, after all. Aurors would come; it was a farce, but it would play out. And it had been so long since a Dark Mark flew that a reporter might show up, especially since it was a high profile place like Malfoy Manor.

"Hold tight," Severus said in her ear. She couldn't see him, he was Disillusioned, but she could _feel_ him right next to her.

"What?"

His wand knocked the top of her head and the Disillusionment trickled over her. Then he had one arm tight around her waist and she grabbed onto him as firmly as she could as they began rising into the cool night air. Wind rushed past them and the ground fell away below her dangling feet.

A scream tore out of her, but she cut it off as soon as it started.

"I've got you," Severus said. He spoke right in her ear, but they were moving so quickly that the wind stole it away and he might as well have been whispering.

Her arms clenched around him and locked. She might've learned the basics of flying, but she still hated heights.

"I've got you," he said again.

They were slowing down, descending. The moment their feet touched down, her knees began to quake. She probably would've thrown up if he hand't immediately Apparated, distracting her from her queasiness.

"A _little_ risky!" he shouted. They were in his office. He let her go and pulled off his outer robe, wrapping it around her. He held her shoulders and glared at her. "_A little risky_, you said. AND THEN YOU BREAK INTO GRINGOTTS?"

He realized she was shivering and pulled her close to him, arms locking her to him as if he could lend her his steadiness.

"What were you thinking? What the _hell _were you thinking?" he muttered into her hair. He was rubbing her back, rubbing her arms, trying to both comfort and get her blood flowing again, warm her up. "You could've been killed."

"I m-miscalculated," she said. Her toes and fingertips were burning as sensation returned.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?" he asked, pulling away and running his hands over her, looking for injuries. His voluminous robes, ridiculously large on her, made it impossible for him to see any of her.

"Cold."

He picked her up and carried her over to the wingback in front of the fire, flicking his wand and sending the flames roaring. He settled in the chair with her on his lap, her legs thrown across his thighs, just as they'd been after she was stabbed. He held her, one hand rubbing circles into her back, his lips at her temple.

She wasn't sure when she started to cry, but the tears came in abundance. She covered her eyes with her hands and pressed into Severus's chest. He held her tight to him, making soothing noises.

Minutes later, or maybe hours, she'd settled enough to talk.

"I didn't factor in the Muggle Fights. I made a mistake."

"Hm?"

"I ran the arithmancy."

"Are you telling me you were… _on purpose_?" His voice was dangerously low. He pulled away so that he could look at her properly.

"Harry and Ron were planning to break into Gringotts."

"What?"

"They were going to try to get to the Lestrange vault. There was a good chance it could work, even. But there was no exit, not if they were there. If it was just me, though, I had a 96 percent chance of ending up in the holding cells at the Ministry for unregistered Muggle-borns. And then, I'd be in public view, more or less. There was a 58 percent chance the Order would be able to break me out. I just forgot about the damn Fights."

"There's no way they wouldn't have put you in the Fights, especially with the Dark Lord away. They need their hour of blood, so much the better if it comes from you."

"And I didn't expect to react like that."

"Like what?" His hands kept up their gentle, moving pressure on her back. It was heavenly.

"Panicking."

"It only stands to reason that you would."

"I was fine in the Ministry cage, but once I was… Once I was behind Malfoy Manor, I just—I couldn't—"

"Sh, Hermione." He kissed her temple.

"I had hours. And that cage was bigger than the one they kept me in in Spain. I should've tried to get out. There wasn't even a guard."

"And what would you have done from there if you got out?" he asked, reasonably. "The gates only open to somebody with a Dark Mark. The grounds were crawling with Death Eaters. You didn't have a wand, you didn't have any clothes."

"I didn't expect to be left alone in the cage," Hermione said, her voice small. "I thought Bellatrix, at least, would come… visit me."

"She hasn't recovered from Easter. Not really. The Dark Lord punished her more than the Malfoys, and she has been far from stable for a long time."

"That was kind of why I thought she might show up and hex me through the bars or something." She shuddered, remembering her handler in Spain, his dead little eyes gleaming as she writhed. She almost gagged. Severus held her tighter, sensing her rising panic.

"You gave me a bloody heart attack," he said when she'd calmed a bit. He shifted her in his lap, holding her closer, tucking her head under his chin. She could feel him shaking now, feel the desperation in his hands as they held her. "They didn't hurt you?"

"Bellatrix pulled my hair."

That made him laugh, which was good. It _was_ laughable, especially since the statement had come out of her sounding like a toddler tattling on a sibling. Small and whiny.

"The children are upstairs. Would you like me to wake them? You can use the robe for now, but we should track down your things. Do you remember which cell you were assigned to? Who took your wand?"

"Slow down, Severus," she said, pressing her face into his chest and closing her eyes. It was warm and comfortable and _safe_ there in his lap. She didn't want to move. "Let the children sleep; they shouldn't see me like this. My things are still at Shell Cottage; the capture was my escape plan, so I didn't take anything with me I wouldn't want to lose. I was using Bellatrix's wand."

"Tup," he said, surprising her.

"Yes, Headmaster, sir?"

"Go to Shell Cottage and retrieve Madam Snape's things."

"Yes, Headmaster, sir!"

Hermione grinned, pulling back so that she could smile at Severus properly. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"What?"

"You called me Madam Snape."

"It's your name."

She kissed him. "I know. It's just nice to hear it." She kissed him again.

"You are ridiculously sentimental sometimes."

"I love you, too."

"They is gone, Headmaster, sir!" Tup said. The little elf was holding Hermione's satchel in one hand and her wand in the other.

"The hell with this day," Severus muttered, helping her to her feet before getting up himself.

Hermione took her things from Tup, thanking the little elf; it wiggled its ears in a happy sort of way and disappeared. Hermione squeezed her wand tight, taking a deep breath. It was hard to believe that it had only been hours, not days or weeks, since she'd last seen the boys.

She flicked her wand, shrinking Severus's robe down to fit her, and turned to look at him while she shuffled through her satchel for shoes. He was giving orders to the portraits, sending them to their other portraits to watch for Harry and Ron.

"You may as well go and have a shower," Severus said when half the portraits in the room, including Dumbledore, had gone. "We have to wait for word back, and you'll feel better for it."

She smiled and pecked him on the lips.

"You're brilliant, did you know that?"

He smirked at her, and she quickly made her way upstairs.

* * *

The owl came while Hermione was in the shower. A big, ugly bird with mean eyes. Or maybe its eyes were perfectly normal, and he just thought they were mean because it always brought him unwelcome news.

The Dark Lord had sent him a note.

_Bloody day._

He was requested—ordered_ —_to put the Carrows on watch at Ravenclaw Tower. The Dark Lord suspected Potter would try to get into the dormitory.

"Oh _shit_."

"What is it?" Hermione asked. She wore jeans and a jumper, her hair braided tight against her head. She sat down in the student chair across the desk and started lacing up her dragonhide boots.

"It's here."

"What is?"

"The Dark Lord thinks Potter is coming here, to Ravenclaw Tower."

"So there's a Horcrux here."

"There must be."

"In Ravenclaw Tower?"

"Somebody would've noticed it by now if there was. An object that Dark? It would _sing_ to the students; they would try to figure out what it was. Flitwick would've noticed."

"So it's something of Ravenclaws and Harry will assume it's in the Tower."

They stared at each other for a moment, then Hermione went upstairs to pack for the children. They'd only been in the castle for a few days, but he'd taken them shopping in Muggle London. They each had clothes and things.

Severus summoned the Carrows to his office and passed along their orders. They were practically bouncing with potential energy when they left, excited at the prospect of capturing Potter for the Dark Lord.

It made Severus sick to his stomach.

A handful of the portraits had already returned to their frames, none of them with anything to report.

"All's quiet at the Ministry."

"Nothing at St. Mungo's."

"Damn," he muttered under his breath.

_When had they left? How long had they been gone? Were Bill and Fleur looking for them, or with them?_

"Dad!" Sofia said, appearing on the landing. Her hair was braided back exactly like Hermione's, and she was wearing jeans and a jumper just like Hermione. Her eyes were wide and bright, excited. "Mum said we get to go to your old flat!"

"Indeed you do."

They could feel it in the air; the shit was about to hit the fan. The Dark Lord was returning from abroad, Potter was missing, and it was only a matter of time before the Death Eaters patched together what had happened at the Manor. The children needed to be hidden. They needed to be away. They needed to be someplace safe.

"In the city?"

"Mhm."

"Is there more than one bedroom?"

"No. Just one there, too."

"But Bast snores, Dad."

"He doesn't snore."

"He _does_."

"I don't!" Bast said, appearing at the top of the stairs. The two of them scrambled down the steps together

There was an ear-splitting alarm from Hogsmeade. It vibrated around the room as if the castle walls weren't even there. The school's wards even tingled from it.

"Oh, the hell with this day!" he snarled, startling the portraits.

"That's a bad word!" Bast said, giggling.

"What's the noise?" Sofia asked.

"It's an alarm. Something is happening in Hogsmeade," Hermione said. She'd put a plain sepia-brown robe on over her jeans and jumper, and the satchel had disappeared into a pocket. She looked haggard and anxious. Elaine had her arms wrapped around Hermione's neck.

"Bad stuff?" Sofia asked.

"Fighting?" Bast asked.

"I don't know. It's an alarm for if somebody is out in the street after they're supposed to be. It could be nothing." He smirked down at Sofia, because she looked worried. "It could be a cat."

"The cat!"

Sofia dashed off and appeared half a moment later with Crookshanks. The ugly tom was stretched out as only unwilling cats ever could, his body stretched down from where Sofia had her arms around him.

"Hello, Crooks," Hermione crooned, and the half-kneazle wriggled free to wind between her legs, purring.

"I like him," Sofia said. She squatted next to her mum, trying to pet Crookshanks too. The cat was having none of it, though, expertly dodging the smaller hand.

"The babies is ready?" Tup asked, appearing with a pop. Crookshanks darted off into the back sitting room.

"Thank you, Tup," Hermione said. Her voice didn't quake, but he could tell it was a close thing.

_Why do we always have to send them away?_ Her thought, not his. He reached for her, squeezed her hand.

_It's almost over_.

That was an ominous thought—there were so many ways "over" could play out…

Hermione went with to see the children settled and put extra wards around the flat. He was alone in the office, the portraits strangely silent as they watched him lean against the edge of his desk. (There had been a stack of disciplinary request forms, but he'd knocked them to the floor when he'd leaned back. It had been cathartic.)

"Severus—" Dumbledore began just as the wards alerted him to a non-student in the castle. Whoever it was hadn't entered through the gate, but the Room of Requirement.

"What is is?" Phineas asked.

"They're the ones who set off the alarms in Hogsmeade. Aberforth must have sent them through."

"What are they thinking, coming here?"

"Fuck if I know."

He ran. The halls were empty, though the students were surely awake in their dormitories after the racket.

He'd visited the Room of Requirement several times, checking on the students in hiding. They had a good setup, especially since he'd spent that weekend convincing the castle to have a tunnel from the Room to the Hog's Head. Some of the students were even keeping up with their homework.

He burst through the door to find the Room in uproar. It was like a strange, patched-together House had won the Quidditch Cup. Potter and Weasley were in the thick of it. It all went quiet when he slammed the door open and realized he hadn't even paused to think about Disillusioning himself, sneaking and scouting before he made a move.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

He strode into the room. Students backed away from him, going for their wands.

He drew his Occlumency up around him. "You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice level.

"He hid one here," Potter said, ignoring the other students. Weasley was whispering with Longbottom, a gold galleon in hand. "Something of Ravenclaw's. And then we're down to just the snake and… me."

"You _shouldn't_ be here. He knows you're here," Severus said. "They're coming."

"Good. He'll bring the snake," Weasley said, looking up from the galleon. He had a lopsided grin, a youthful energy, excitement in the way he was tense. He was itching for a fight, a confrontation. To _do_ something after fighting indirectly so long.

_So naïve. So hopelessly young._

"The children—"

"Evacuate them," Potter said. "Right now."

"To hell with this bloody day," Severus muttered. On his left, Finnegan shot him a surprised look; Severus glared at him.

"Is Hermione here?" Weasley asked.

"No."

"What?" Potter had paled.

"She's fine. She'll be back shortly."

He was _not_ going to explain about hiding away their children in front of a room full of his students. Students who hated him.

"Okay," Potter said. "Right. We'll need the Order and anybody else who will fight. Do you have a way to contact them? Anybody? I need you to buy me time."

Severus had to push back a flutter of emotion. That old loyalty to Lily, that guilt, the rage. Dumbledore had raised this boy for the slaughter, and he'd done it perfectly. Harry Potter was seventeen years old and he was preparing the stage for his own death.

"I rather burned all those bridges last spring," he said dryly.

"Right," Potter said.

"Blitzy!" Severus called, and the elf appeared immediately, wringing his hands.

"Yes, Headmaster, sir?"

"Find the Heads of House and tell them to come to the Room of Requirement immediately."

"Yes, sir, Headmaster, sir!"

"I need to—"

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?" Seamus Finnegan burst out, seeming to speak for the crowd at large.

"It's a long story," Weasley said, grinning. "A very long story. There's a Time Turner involved, and—"

"He's on our side. Surprise," Potter said, looking over the crowd at large. "Does anybody know how to get into the Ravenclaw common room?"

Severus raised an eyebrow at him. _What a stupid question_. "What do you need in Ravenclaw Tower?"

"I don't know."

Severus took a very deep breath, containing a long string of explitives not appropriate for a headmaster to say in front of his pupils.

"Lovegood, take Potter to Raveclaw Tower, and for God's sake don't be _seen_. The Carrows will be nearby on the lookout for you."

"Right," Potter said. He pulled his Invisibility Cloak out of his back pocket and draped it over himself and Lovegood. The door appeared to open and close on its own.

"All of you," Severus said, turning to the crowd and glaring around at them. The students shifted nervously, gripping their wands. "If you are underage, you leave right now. Through the tunnel to the Hog's Head. Tell Aberforth he needs to hide you in the village. Help the students that come after."

There were some protests, mostly fifteen and sixteen year olds angry they were being sent away, but Severus wouldn't hear of it.

"Weasley. You and your sister get them through and tell Aberforth what's happening."

After a stunned moment, Weasley nodded.

"Shut it and move," the sister said, directing a few of the argumentatitve ones through.

Severus tried to take a mental count of who was leaving, but Minerva arrived only seconds later. She skidded into the Room much as he had, throwing the door open and looking around with wide eyes. He'd obviously brought her out of bed—she wore a tartan dressing gown and her hair was in a loose braid over one shoulder instead of its usual bun.

"What's happened?" she cried, distracting the students. Severus almost smiled.

"Potter is headed for Ravenclaw Tower and the Dark Lord knows it."

"Oh, Circe."

His Mark burned, and he swore. Finnegan, standing off to the side with the others of-age who had decided to stay and fight, looked impressed. Minerva noted his clenched fist and took a step closer, putting her hand on his elbow.

"The Carrows must have seen him. Damn!"

"Ravenclaw Tower?"

"Yes." He turned to Finnegan and glared. "When Slughorn, Sprout and Flitwick arrive, tell them what's going on."

"Y-yes, sir."

"A thousand points to Gryffindor," he said sarcastically and heard Minerva snort as she followed him out of the Room. Finnegan's jaw dropped open again. Severus rolled his eyes—Gryffindor was several thousand points in the negative, which hadn't been possible until he'd attached a counter display at the base of the hourglass in November; a thousand points hardly made a difference.

He Disillusioned himself just in time. Amycus Carrow stood outside the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room, glaring at the eagle-shaped knocker.

"I dunno, do I? Shut it!" he shouted. "Alecto? _Alecto_? Are you there? Have you got him? Open the door!

"_ALECTO_! If he comes, and we haven't got Potter—d'you want to go the same way as the Malfoys? ANSWER ME!"

Next to him, Minerva smoothed her braid over her shoulder and strode down the corridor.

"May I ask what you are doing, Professor Carrow?"

"Trying—to get—through this damned—door!" Amycus shouted. "Go and get Flitwick! Get him to open it, now!"

"But isn't your sister in there? Didn't Professor Flitwick let her in earlier this evening, at your urgent request? Perhaps she could open the door for you? Then you wouldn't wake up half the castle."

Severus caught himself smiling.

"She ain't answering, you old besom! _You_ open it! Garn! Do it, _now_!"

"Certainly, if you wish it," Minerva said coldly. She lifted the knocker and let it fall gently.

"Where do Vanished object go?" it asked.

"Into nonbeing, which is to say, everything," Minerva replied.

"Nicely phrased," said the eagle door knocker, and the door sprang open.

Carrow dashed into the room wand-first. Minerva followed, and Severus slipped in behind her. Alecto Carrow was on the floor, and Amycus froze in his tracks, eyes fixed on her.

"What've they done, the little whelps?" he screamed. "I'll Cruciate the lot of 'em till they tell me who did it—and what's the Dark Lord going to say? We haven't got him, and they've gorn and killed her!"

"She's only Stunned," Minerva said impatiently. She bent down next to Alecto, her face carefully blank. "She'll be perfectly all right."

"No she bludgering well won't!" bellowed Amycus. "Not after the Dark Lord gets hold of her! She's gorn and sent for him. I felt me Mark burn, and he thinks we've got Potter!"

"'Got Potter'?" said Minerva sharply, standing. "What do you mean, 'got Potter'?"

"He told us Potter might try and get inside Ravenclaw Tower, and to send for him if we caught him!"

"Why would Harry Potter try to get inside Ravenclaw Tower? Potter belongs in my House!"

"We was told he might come in here!" Amycus snarled. "I dunno why, do I?"

Minerva looked around the room, eyes seeking any sign of Harry under his Cloak. Severus scanned the room, too, and was glad when he didn't see any sign of him or Lovegood.

"We can push it off on the kids," Amycus said. "Yeah, that's what we'll do. We'll say Alecto was ambushed by the kids, them kids up there, and we'll say they forced her to press her Mark, and that's why he got a false alarm… He can punish them. Couple of kids more or less, what's the difference."

Severus spun to glare at Amycus, wand in hand. This time, he would hex the man. _This time… _

"Only the difference between truth and lies, courage and cowardice," Minerva snapped, her face pale. "A difference, in short, which you and your sister seem unable to appreciate. But let me make one thing very clear. You are not going to pass off your many ineptitudes on the students of Hogwarts. I shall not permit it."

"Excuse me?" Amycus took two quick steps forward until he was offensively close to Minerva, his face within inches of hers. She refused to back away, but looked down at him like he was something disgusting he had found growing in an old boot. "It's not a case of what _you'll _permit, Minerva McGonagall. Your time's over. It's us what's in charge here now, and you'll back me up or you'll pay the price."

He spat in her face.

That, of course, was all it took for Potter to lose his temper. He burst from beneath his Cloak, raised his wand, and said, "You shouldn't have done that."

Amycus spun around, and Potter shouted, "_Crucio_!"

The Unforgivable blasted the Death Eater off his feet. He writhed through the air like a drowning man, howling and thrashing in pain. He landed with a crunch and the tinkle of breaking glass, and crumpled to the floor. It was very gratifying to see.

"I see what Bellatrix meant," Potter said. "You need to really mean it."

"Potter!" whispered Minerva, clutching her heart. "Potter—you're here! What—? How—?" She took a breath. "Potter, that was foolish!"

"He spat at you," said Potter. Severus rolled his eyes.

"Potter, I—that was very—very _gallant _of you—but don't you realize—?"

"Yeah, I do," Potter said, sounding calm and level all of a sudden. "Professor McGonagall, Voldemort's on the way."

"Oh, are we allowed to say the name now?" Lovegood asked, sounding politely curious. She pulled the Cloak off, folding it over her arm.

Severus lifted his Disillusionment, noting the surprised twitch from the younger two. He almost rolled his eyes again.

"You're an idiot, Harry Potter," he said. Potter just shrugged and turned to Lovegood.

"I don't think it makes any difference what we call him. He already knows where I am."

Severus raised an eyebrow, meeting Potter's eyes and easily seeing through them to his recent vision. The Dark Lord was sailing fast over a dark lake in a ghostly green boat, checking on his Horcrux. It was only a matter of time.

"What do you need?" Severus asked.

"Time," Harry said, turning and pacing the common room a moment, looking at the bust of Rowena Ravenclaw each time he passed it. "And the diadem of Ravenclaw."

"The d-diadem of Ravenclaw?" Minerva spluttered, looking back and forth between Potter and Severus. "Hasn't it been lost for centuries?" She put her fists on her hips and glared at him. "Potter, it was madness, utter madness, for you to enter this castle—"

"I had to," Potter said. "Professor, there's something hidden here that I'm supposed to find, and it _could_ be the diadem—if I could just speak to Professor Flitwick."

Amycus was coming around, so Severus dealt with him. He considered killing him outright, but that wouldn't be right—Carrow still mostly unconscious and in the common room where children did their homework. Instead, he Stunned the pale, hunched man again and lashed him tightly to his pale, hunched sister.

"Potter," Minerva said, turning to face him again after watching Severus restrain the Carrows. "If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does indeed know that you are here—"

Potter went to one knee as she spoke, clutching his forehead.

"Potter, are you all right?" Minerva asked, stepping closer.

Severus grabbed him under the armpits, hoisting him back to his feet.

"Time's running out, Voldemort's getting nearer," Potter reported, finally getting his legs beneath him properly and taking his own weight. He looked earnestly at Minerva, and said, "Professor, I'm acting on Dumbledore's orders, I must find what he wanted me to find! But we've got to get the students out while I'm searching the castle—it's me Voldemort wants, but he won't care about killing a few more or less, not now—"

"You're acting on _Dumbledore's_ orders?" Minerva repeated, eyes flitting from Potter to Severus, then drew herself up, resigned. "We shall secure the school against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named while you search for this—this object."

"Is that possible?" Potter asked.

"I think so," Minerva said dryly, meeting Severus's eyes. "We teachers are rather good at magic, you know. I am sure we will be able to hold him off for a while if we all put our best efforts into it."

"The tunnel in the Room of Requirement comes out at the Hog's Head. Weasley went with the first group to forewarn Aberforth," Severus said.

"Severus, it's hundreds of students. It's going to take time…"

"Meanwhile the Dark Lord is concentrating on the school boundaries. They won't be interested in anyone who's Disapparating out of the Hog's Head," Severus pointed out.

"There's something in that."

After a moment's thought, Minerva pointed her wand at the Carrows, wrapping them up in a silver net and hoisting them into the air to dangle beneath the ceiling like two large, ugly… Death Eaters.

"Where have the other Heads got to?" Severus wondered out loud. He'd expected Filtwick to burst in on them quite awhile ago.

He stepped out into the corridor, but there was still no sign. After a moment, Minerva followed him.

"I'll send a Patronus, shall I?" she asked, lifting her wand.

"You'd better. They certainly won't respond to _mine_."

She smirked at him, began the spell, and then Flitwick was with them.

"Minerva!" Flitwick called, approaching at a run.

Sprout was sprinting down the corridor as well, Slughorn panting along behind.

Severus realized what they must look like there in the corridor with their wands drawn a moment before they attacked.

"You'll do no more murder at Hogwarts!" Flitwick shouted, and his spell animated a suit of armor down the hall. It rushed him, grabbed him.

"Filius! No!" Minerva shouted, pointing her wand at the suit of armor to help, but it was still holding him, clattering and crushing.

He slipped its grasp and sent it soaring across the hall into the wall. It fell to pieces, the helmet rolling dramatically along the floor toward Flitwick. Severus spun, standing even with Minerva and facing the three other Heads of House warily. He kept his wand up and ready, but he didn't want to cast any spells.

"What have you done to her?" Flitwick asked, coming closer, eyes narrowed.

"Filius!" Minerva snapped, exasperated.

"I have done nothing," Severus said as evenly and placatingly as he could muster.

Flitwick made an ugly scoffing noise.

Potter chose that moment to step out of the common room with Lovegood in tow.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Potter!" the three at the end of the hall cried, halting their approach. It seemed to finally break through their first impression of the scene.

"Potter, what…?" Pomona asked, her eyes going from face to face, finally settling on Minerva. "Minerva?"

The Dark Lord chose that moment to Summon him. His Mark burned like it had never burned before, making his vision go red around the edges for a moment.

"To _hell_ with this bloody day," he said, forcing his fist to unclench.

"Severus?" Minerva asked, her hand on his shoulder. He couldn't remember her putting it there.

"I'm being Summoned. He'll want me to bring him through the wards." Minerva looked blind-sided._ Time. Potter needs more time_. "I will tell him that the professors have turned on me, driven me from the school. I will tell him that the wards have closed themselves to me." He looked away from the others, focusing on Minerva and Potter. "Lock it down. Buy him time. Do what needs to be done."

"Of—of course, Severus," Minerva said.

"Try not to die," Potter said. "Hermione would…"

Severus nodded. They'd known this was coming. This was the reason they'd resisted. But now… the children.

_Fuck_.

"Good luck," he said perfunctorily to Potter. It seemed like the thing to say—they would likely never see each other again, never speak again. One or both of them would be dead before the dawn.

He glanced at Minerva and nodded to her solemnly, but she spoiled his smooth exit by throwing herself at him and hugging him tight. Surprised, he stumbled back a step before hugging her back.

"Enough, enough," he said, finally managing to push her back. Pomona, Flitwick and Slughorn were standing closer now, and it made him uncomfortable. "This was why I never bloody told anybody when I was leaving."

"Bugger off," Minerva said.

Severus smirked, gave her an exaggerated courtly bow, then swept his cloak around himself and shot toward the nearest window.

* * *

**A/N: Thus begins the Battle of Hogwarts, I suppose. Next chapter late tomorrow.**

**(Sorry I missed another coffee break, Mystical G Panther)**

**Cheers!**

**—M**


	45. Chapter Forty-Four

When Hermione returned to Hogwarts, her Occlumency shields barely holding back the roiling damned feelings, Severus wasn't in his office. The portraits said he'd gone to the Room of Requirement, but he wasn't there either. The only people there were seventeen year olds who wanted to fight and Ron, who had just finished telling them about how Bill had been called in to work at Gringotts early that morning because she'd broken in and cursed a bunch of stuff in the Lestrange vault.

"Not now Ron," Hermione said. "Get to the Great Hall."

There probably wasn't a plan, but when there was one it would likely involve the Great Hall. It would be a good gathering place for all the fighters. Hopefully there would be fighters.

Seamus told her that he'd sent the Heads of House to Ravenclaw Tower, so she headed that way. The halls were eerily quiet, filled with a sense of whispers just outside the range of her hearing. The portraits were restless.

She rounded the corner just in time to see Harry clutch at his forehead. The professors watched, confused, and Hermione hurried forward to catch him before he fell.

"It's time, Minerva," Hermione said, hearing a strange hollowness in her own voice. "Barricade the school. He's coming now."

Harry groaned. Hermione looked Minerva in the eye, and the older witch nodded once.

"Very well. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming," she told the other teachers. "Potter has work to do in the castle on Dumbledore's orders. We need to put in place every protection of which we are capable while Potter does what he needs to do."

"You realize, of course, that nothing we do will be able to keep out You-Know-Who indefinitely?" Flitwick pointed out, seeming to set aside his questions and focus on the task at hand.

"But we can hold him up," said Professor Sprout.

"Thank you, Pomona," Minerva said. "I suggest we establish basic protection around the place, then gather our students and meet in the Great Hall. Most must be evacuated, though if any of those who are over age wish to stay and fight, I think they ought to be given the chance."

"Agreed," said Professor Sprout, turning and hurrying toward the door. "I will meet you in the Great Hall in twenty minutes with my House."

She was muttering about various unfriendly magical plants as she ran down the corridor.

"I can act from here," Flitwick said, and pointed his wand through the smashed window, muttering incantations.

"Professor," said Harry, startling Hermione when he stepped away from her. "Professor, I'm sorry to interrupt, but this is important. Have you any idea where the diadem of Ravenclaw is?"

"—_Protego Horribilis_—the diadem of Ravenclaw? A little extra wisdom never goes amiss, Potter, but I hardly think it would be much use in _this_ situation!"

"I only meant—do you know where it is? Have you ever seen it?"

"Seen it? Nobody has seen it in living memory! Long since lost, boy!"

Hermione was wracking her brain for anything else the Horcrux could be if not the diadem. Nothing came to mind, though. The idea of the diadem just felt… right. It had to be.

Harry turned to look at her, desperate.

"What do you think?" he asked her. She shrugged one shoulder, still wracking her brain.

"We shall meet you and your Ravenclaws in the Great Hall, Filius!" Minvera said, then beckoned for them to follow. They made it to the door before Slughorn spoke.

"My word," he said, pale and sweaty. "What a to-do! I'm not at all sure whether this is wise, Minerva. He is bound to find a way in, you know, and anyone who has tried to delay him will be in most grievous peril—"

"I shall expect you and the Slytherins in the Great Hall in twenty minutes, also," Minerva said sharply. "If you wish to leave with your students, we shall not stop you. But if any of you attempt to sabotage our resistance or take up arms against us within the castle, then, Horace, we duel to kill."

"Minerva!"

"Go and wake your students, Horace."

Hermione dragged Harry and Luna along when Minerva was stopped by Filch. Before long, the corridors were full of students and moving statues, suits of armor.

The Room of Requirement held more people than it had when they left.

"Harry, what's happening?" Lupin asked the moment they entered.

"Voldemort's on his way, they're barricading the school—what're you doing here? How did you know?"

They bumbled through ten minutes of confusion. The members of Dumbledore's Army who had left school had still received their alerts, and they, in turn, had told the Order. Any and all had come. Even Percy Weasley.

Harry explained what had happened before she'd arrived outside the Ravenclaw common room. She hugged him, forced her Occlumency into place to keep herself from worrying about Severus, and followed along with the crowd when they gathered in the Great Hall. The students looked petrified. The House ghosts hovered overhead, somehow more macabre than usual in light of what was to come.

Hermione walked with Harry down the length of the Gryffindor table, drawing eyes as they went.

"We have already placed protection around the castle," Minerva explained, voice easily carrying to the entire Hall. "But it is unlikely to hold for very long unless we reinforce it. I must ask you, therefore, to move quickly and calmly, and do as your prefects—"

The rest of her instructions were drowned out by a high, cold voice that echoed through the Hall without seeming to come from anywhere.

"I know that you are preparing to fight." Students screamed, some clutching at their ears or each other. Hermione froze, staying beside Harry and scanning the room, waiting for the threat to emerge. "Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood."

The Hall practically echoed with the silence that followed the statement.

"Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.

"You have until midnight."

Silence reigned again. Every eye was on Harry. Hermione drew her wand, but kept it close to her thigh, as if that meant nobody had noticed. On his other side, Ron had done the same.

"But he's there! Potter's _there_! Someone grab him!" Pansy Parkinson screamed, rising from the Slytherin table and pointing across the Hall with a shaking arm.

Hermione flicked her wand, casting _Levicorpus_ and _Incarcerous_ just as it seemed like the entirety of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw stood to put themselves between Harry and Pansy Parkinson.

"Thank you, Miss Parkinson," Minerva said, her voice clipped. She didn't seem to notice that the student she spoke to was dangling upside down, bound in conjured ropes. "You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow."

Hermione released Pansy in a heap on her House table. She gathered what remained of her dignity, and led the way out of the Hall.

"Ravenclaws, follow on!" Minerva called.

"Let's go," Harry said, turning and heading for the door. She and Ron fell into step with him, eyes scanning the crowd as they walked. The Order was there, the D.A., and a surprising number of seventh years. Eyes followed them as they left, taking one of the side doors so they wouldn't have to fight the crowd making their way out the main doors.

"We're splitting up," Harry said once they were out of the Hall. "We need to find the diadem, and it's not in Ravenclaw Tower, and Flitwick didn't know a thing about it. We need to find the Ravenclaw ghost…"

"Yeah, who's that?" Ron asked.

"The Gray Lady," Hermione said. trying to remember if she'd seen where the ghost had gone after the Ravenclaws had evacuated the Hall.

"Right," said Harry. "Ron, you head for the Room of Requirement where they're evacuating. Hermione, you go to Ravenclaw Tower. I'm going to try to find Nick or a different ghost or something."

"No, wait," Hermione said, grabbing them both by the elbow and closing her eyes. She hadn't ever used her sense of the castle as the headmaster's wife on purpose, and the last time she'd been able to really track any of the information it provided her had been in the summer. The information was overwhelming when she thought about it. "Wait."

The Bloody Baron was in the Room of Requirement, watching the Slytherins depart. Myrtle was in her toilet with all the taps running. Sir Nicholas and the Fat Friar were outside the Room of Requirement, perhaps saying soothing things to the younger children as they went in. The Gray Lady… the Gray Lady was…

"Found her!" She took a firmer hold of their arms and Apparated to the courtyard. The Gray Lady startled, spinning to look at them.

"You must be the headmaster's wife," the Gray Lady said. She was pretty in the way most pure bloods were—in spite of the haughty, proud air. She had waist-length hair and a floor-length cloak, and she hovered a few inches from the ground.

"I am," Hermione said, releasing Harry and Ron.

"He is a… complicated wizard."

"Yes."

The Gray Lady turned as if she was going to drift through the far wall of the courtyard.

"Wait—please!" Harry cried, taking a few steps forward. The ghost consented to pause. "You're the Gray Lady."

She nodded but did not speak.

"The ghost of Ravenclaw Tower?"

"That is correct."

"Please: I need some help. I need to know anything you can tell me about the lost diadem."

She smiled, but it was a cold, unencouraging smile. "I am afraid that I cannot help you."

"WAIT!" Ron shouted when she turned to leave. "This is urgent."

"If that diadem's at Hogwarts, I've got to find it fast," Harry said.

"You are hardly the first to covet the diadem," the ghost said disdainfully. "Generations of students have badgered me—"

"This isn't about trying to get better marks," Harry said, sounding tired and angry at the same time. Hermione put a restraining hand on his arm. "It's about Voldemort—defeating Voldemort—or aren't you interested in that?"

The ghost's transparent cheeks became more opaque, and Hermione wondered if she was blushing. Her voice was heated when she replied: "Of course I—how dare you suggest—?"

"Well, help me, then." His voice was beseeching now. Calm.

"It—it is not a question of—" she stammered, her composure slipping. "My mother's diadem—"

"_Your mother's_?" Ron asked. The ghost looked angry with herself.

"When I lived," she said stiffly, "I was Helena Ravenclaw."

"You're her _daughter_?" Ron asked. "But then, you must know what happened to it."

"While the diadem bestows wisdom," she said with obvious effort to pull herself together, "I doubt that it would greatly increase your chances of defeating the wizard who calls himself Lord—"

"I'm not interested in wearing it," Harry said fiercely. "There's no time to explain—but if you care about Hogwarts, if you want to see Voldemort finished, you've got to tell me anything you know about the diadem."

The ghost was very still as she looked down at them. Hermione had given up hope that she would speak when she did.

"I stole the diadem from my mother."

"You—you did what?"

"_I stole the diadem_," Helena Ravenclaw repeated in a whisper. "I sought to make myself cleverer, more important than my mother. I ran away with it.

"My mother, they say, never admitted that the diadem was gone, but pretended that she had it still. She concealed her loss, my dreadful betrayal, even from the other founders of Hogwarts.

"Then my mother fell ill—fatally ill. In spite of my perfidy, she was desperate to see me one more time. She sent a man who had long loved me, though I spurned his advances, to find me. She knew that he would not rest until he had done so.

"He tracked me to the forest where I was hiding. When I refused to return with him, he became violent. The Baron was always a hot-tempered man. Furious at my refusal, jealous of my freedom, he stabbed me."

"The _Baron_? You mean—?" Hermione interjected.

"The Bloody Baron, yes," said the Gray Lady, and she lifted aside the cloak she wore to reveal a single dark wound in her white chest. "When he saw what he had done, he was overcome with remorse. He took the weapon that had claimed my life, and used it to kill himself. All these centuries later, he wears his chains as an act of penitence… as he should," she added bitterly.

"And… and the diadem?" Harry prompted after they'd had a moment to soak in the story.

"It remained where I had hidden it when I heard the Baron blundering through the forest toward me. Concealed inside a hollow tree."

"A hollow tree? What tree? Where was this?"

"A forest in Albania. A lonely place I thought was far beyond my mother's reach."

"Albania," Ron groaned.

"You've already told this story, haven't you? Another student?" Harry asked, holding a hand out to Ron, telling him not to give up yet. The ghost closed her eyes and nodded.

"I had… no idea… He was… flattering. He seemed to… to understand… to sympathize…"

Harry nodded. "Well, you weren't the first person Riddle wormed things out of," he muttered. "He could be charming when he wanted…

"He hid the diadem in the castle, the night he asked Dumbledore to let him teach, didn't he?" Harry said. "He must've hidden the diadem on his way up to, or down from, Dumbledore's office. But it was still worth trying to get the job—then he might've got the chance to nick Gryffindor's sword as well—thank you! Thanks!"

He dashed off, leaving her floating there looking utterly bewildered. Hermione nodded awkwardly, receiving a much more dignified nod in return. She and Ron ran after Harry.

They turned a corner, then dove to the side when the window broke open with a deafening, shattering crash. A gigantic body flew through the window and hit the opposite wall, making them shove themselves back to avoid getting hit. The three of them were on their feet, wands pointing at the dark shape, but then they realized what it was.

"Hagrid!" Harry shouted, fighting off Fang as the half-giant clambered to his feet. "What the—?"

"Harry, yet here! _Yer here_!"

Hagrid scooped the three of them up in a rib-crushing hug, then dropped them and ran back to the shattered window.

"Good boy, Grawpy!" he bellowed. "I'll see yer in a moment, there's a good lad!"

There were bursts of light in the distance, just visible around Hagrid's shape in the window. One weird, keening scream floated across the grounds and through the broken glass to them. Hermione shuddered.

It was midnight. The battle had begun.

_Thank God my children aren't here._

"Blimey, Harry," panted Hagrid, "this is it, eh? Time ter fight?"

"Seems so," Harry said. "Come on!"

They hurried along together, Fang lolloping beside them. There were more lights outside the windows as they passed—the yellow of the wards absorbing spells, the multi-colored flashes of other spells.

"Where're we going?" Hagrid asked.

"Room of Requirement," Harry said.

They darted past the wreckage of the two stone gargoyles that usually guarded the staffroom. They'd been smashed apart by a jinx that must have come through another broken window.

"Oh, don't mind me," one of them moaned faintly as they ran on, "I'll just lie here and crumble…"

They almost collided with Neville and Professor Sprout when they rounded the next corner. They were followed by half a dozen others, all wearing earmuffs and carrying large potted plants.

"Mandrakes!" Neville bellowed at Harry over his shoulder. "Going to lob them over the walls—they won't like this!"

The people in the portraits on the walls were trying to keep pace with them as they ran, darting from painting to painting, screaming about the goings-on around the castle.

As they reached the end of the corridor, the whole castle shook, and a giant vace flew off its plinth with explosive force and shattered. Fang took off in terror, chased by Hagrid.

The castle continued to tremble as they got closer to their destination. They took a shortcut across an exposed walkway, pausing just a moment to look out over the grounds. People were running everywhere. She could see Neville and his group disappearing into a tower on the outer wall, then they reappeared at the top and began hurling the potted Mandrakes over the crenellations.

A different section of the wall was under attack, the Death Eaters on the other side trying to break through the wards. The magical barrier rippled yellow and gold as the ancient spells repelled their attempts. She couldn't recall, for all the times she'd read _Hogwarts: A History_, if the defenses had ever been called upon as such.

There were flashes of spellfire on the grounds. Worry for Severus flashed through her, but she pushed it away. She couldn't think of it now. He was relatively safe. Maybe he'd even fled properly. Maybe he'd gone to Edinburgh to keep the children safe. She hoped he had, but didn't think it likely.

Then came the fire. It roared along the wards, illuminating a swath near the main gate blue from the wards and orange-red from the magical fire. For a moment, the wards held. Then the Fiendfyre rose along the dome of them like a tsunami crashing into a glass wall; the wards rained crackling blue sparks. She'd never seen so much Fiendfyre in her life.

There were hard impacts against the outside of the wards. Inside, it was like grenades had gone off against that invisible wall—sparks of yellow-gold light fell from the dome, looking like molten lava, splattering onto the grass and stone; vanishing, leaving scorched earth and the smell of sulfur behind.

The sound of screaming metal split the air, and she could just make out the main gate as it was blasted off its hinges, flying out onto the lawn with a creak of hot metal. The wards went blue, the full dome of it over their heads vibrating and cracking with yellow bands, then more molten light splattered silently to the ground. The three of them each put up Shields to keep it off.

Fiendfyre rushed over the wall, beginning to eat its way over the grounds of Hogwarts.

"Go," Hermione said, turning to look at them. "Find the diadem."

She shoved at them, and they went. She turned back to the broken gates, so far off but so clear. She leapt up, ignoring the sizzle of red light that shot past her from below. She cast her own Fiendfyre, directing it out to join the oncoming wave of it, to take it over.

She staggered when her spell became part of the oncoming wall of false fire. The one who had cast it was dead, eaten by his own flame, and it had been free for a moment. Now it wanted her, wanted to burn her so that she couldn't control it anymore.

There was a moment when she was sure she would pass out. Her entire being was with the Fiendfyre and it was wholly unnatural. It was intent on consuming the grass and grounds, laughing at the dew collected on the greens as though it was there to try and stop it.

When it neared the castle proper, Hermione finally managed to pull it up short, spinning it into six cyclones of fire. Fiendfyre was frighteningly alive, but that was useful because it was also a showboat. It wanted to be big and scary, and so it listened to these sorts of suggestions (and could be tricked back into nothingness).

The cyclones were large on top and narrow at the base, making them less damaging. She spun them into one towering pillar of fire that nearly matched the Astronomy Tower for height.

She folded the tower into itself, curling over like a wave back onto the grounds away from the school. She could see giants breaking through the perimeter wall, and knew that there were forty of them, knew that Severus was back on the grounds for her to be able to know that. (She couldn't sense the wards nearly so well when he wasn't in the castle.)

She shaped the Fiendfyre into a stampede of horrifying fiery beasts. It raced through the sky toward the oncoming giants, shrinking down until it was just one gigantic bull, horns gleaming orange, body white hot, eyes red and roasting.

The bull took on the first giant over the wall, tossing it with flaming horns. The giant was quickly dead, consumed in flame. The second giant was exceedingly dumb and tried to grapple with the beast, grabbing for its horns and making a horrible noise when its hands melted and burned.

There were Death Eaters on the grounds, too. A few tried to overtake her Fiendfyre, but they failed. The bull absorbed the new spells, growing larger each time, transforming into a dragon. It was a Hungarian Horntail, she noted without amusement. The tail smashed into a giant's head and it exploded in a gout of flame and charred meat; meanwhile, the head of the dragon breathed fire, charring a scar into the place where three Death Eaters (or possibly Snatchers?) had been making their way toward the castle.

The dragon was too much. The Fiendfyre was too hard to control; too big. She tricked it into going out by having it pour all of itself, all the fire that made it up, out in a spewing flame from the dragon's mouth. That flame burnt up into a flicker, taking out one last giant, and then the night was dark.

Sixteen giants left, the wards told her. Death Eaters entering through multiple breaches in the perimeter wall, and coming over by broomstick, too. The Apparition wards were still in place. The wards on the individual classrooms and different portions of the castle—just the main wards, the ones that physically kept things out, had fallen to the Fiendfyre.

The students were evacuated, but some had remained behind. She couldn't worry about them now; she had to catch up with Harry and Ron. Just the diadem, then the snake…

Then Harry himself.

Hermione redoubled her Occlumency shields and ran back into the castle proper, headed for the Room of Requirement.

She arrived just in time to see Harry, Ron, Malfoy and Goyle shoot out the door on broomsticks. Fiendfyre filled the Room of Requirement, licking its way out, spilling into the hall.

Hermione leapt forward, casting more fire, taking control of the spell. Compared to the mess of it outside, the Room of Requirement was nothing. When the fire was gone, there was nothing but a blackened husk of a room, but the fire hadn't put up nearly as much of a fight as that damned dragon.

"The dragon," Malfoy murmured behind her and she spun away from the smoking, smoldering room to point her wand at him. His yes went wide, and then Goyle grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away. Noting that neither had a wand, she let them go.

"Harry, what's on your arm?" she asked, trying to ignore the overpowering stench of burning.

"What? Oh yeah—"

It was the diadem. Dainty, delicate-looking, a bit sooty. It had the words '_Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure_' etched into it.

"Give it here, then," she said, and he did. She tossed it into the Room of Requirement and blasted it with more Fiendfyre. It was getting easier and easier to put the cursed fire out. That was a dangerous habit to get into.

The three of them stared at each other for a moment when it was done. Harry and Ron were singed, blacked with soot. She imagined she looked even worse.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asked, then flapped a hand at them when they both opened their mouths to explain. "No, no. Nevermind. Tell me later."

They nodded. Ron smirked.

"So," he said.

"The snake," Harry said. Hermione had to swallow a sudden lump in her throat.

Yells and shouts and the unmistakable noises of dueling filled the corridor. The three of them moved in sync, bringing their wands up and turning to face the noise. She missed her knife, but it was still stuck hilt-deep in a tree somewhere in the Forest of Dean. They hadn't been back to retrieve it (or the tent or any of their things) since they'd been captured.

Fred and Percy backed into view, both of them dueling masked and hooded men.

Jets of light flew in every direction. A spell—she thought it might have been from Ron—knocked off the hood of the wizard Percy was dueling; the man backed off fast.

"Hello, Minister!" Percy bellowed, sending a neat jinx straight at Thicknesse, who dropped his wand and clawed at the front of his robes, apparently in awful discomfort. "Did I mention I'm resigning?"

"You're joking, Perce!" Fred shouted gleefully. The Death Eater he was battling collapsed under the weight of three separate Stunning Spells. Thicknesse had fallen to the ground with tiny spikes erupting all over him; he seemed to be turning into some form of sea urchin.

"Huh," Hermione said, watching. She'd never thought to use animal transfiguration like that.

"You actually _are _joking, Perce… I don't think I've heard you joke since you were—"

The air exploded. They had been grouped together, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred and Percy, the two Death Eaters. In that fragment of a moment, when danger seemed temporarily at bay, the world was rent apart. Hermione was thrown to the ground. Harry, who had been right next to her, dropped out of sight…

She found him half buried in the wreckage of the corridor. The wall had been blown away from the outside. Harry was bleeding from a wound on his cheek, but it was hard to judge how bad it was because head wounds always bleed quite a lot.

"No—no—no!" Percy was shouting. "No! Fred! No!"

Percy was shaking his brother, and Ron was kneeling beside them. Hermione dashed over, ignoring Harry and his scratch in favor of Fred, whose eyes were half open, showing whites.

"Move," she instructed, and was only half surprised when Percy did.

She cast her diagnostics, then cast more over his vital organs. He'd been crushed. Most of his bones were broken; he was bleeding internally. He had moments.

She could hear herself swearing, but she didn't know what, exactly, she was saying.

Hermione yanked her satchel out of her robe pocket and returned it to its usual size, then pulled out her kit. The bones were easy to fix with a spell, but his insides were quickly trying to become soup. His stomach was punctured, his digestive fluids wreaking havoc on sensitive tissues. And when she began to fix some of those problems, he was going to start to be able to feel it all, he was going to start to come back.

Because losing Fred Weasley was unthinkable.

"Get down!" Harry shouted, but Hermione didn't move. One of them would have to react, have to put up a Shield Charm.

Slicing through Fred's robes with a careful spell, she cleaned his torso with another spell and cut into him. She didn't have the sort of potions needed to repair organs; she'd have to use spells and Dittany. It was going to be a bloody mess, quite literally.

"What are you _doing_?" Percy shouted, but she ignored him. Harry or Ron could explain.

She broke his ribs again so that she could get her hands in. Actually, she removed the front plate of them as if she was going to do an autopsy on him. When she was finished, she would probably be sick.

Stomach was the first priority. Seal it, neutralize the stomach acid that had escaped.

Next came the intestines, dripping Dittany to close the punctures from the first broken ribs, then carefully realigning them around the other organs with a spell.

The liver had been punctured, she fixed that.

She didn't bother fixing his appendix; she just took it out.

Kidneys were okay. Lungs bruised but, surprisingly, not punctured. She couldn't put Bruise Salve on his lungs, so he'd just have to deal with being sore when he breathed. His heart had a few bone fragments lodged in it, but it hadn't actually been punctured. He'd been very lucky that she happened to be in the corridor and have had extensive Healer training. They wouldn't have had time to find help.

The most dire injuries tended, Hermione fixed his ribs again and closed him up. She had to use a spell, so he'd have a massive scar on his chest, a Y-incision he'd no doubt joke with George about as some sort of map for his future coroner. At least she hoped he'd joke with George about it; it would almost be more awful to have saved Fred only to lose George. Could one even exist without the other?

She couldn't imagine her own twins separate, and they weren't as perfectly in sync as the Weasley twins.

_Do not think of the girls right now, Hermione. You know better._

She brushed away her tears, then had to wipe her eyes on her sleeve to clear the blood off.

"Okay," she said, sitting back on her heels and recasting her diagnostics. "Okay."

Fred groaned, then whimpered. He was crying.

"Here, Fred," she murmured, pulling out the strongest pain potion she had and holding it to his lips. "For the pain. Drink it down, Fred. You're going to be okay."

It was nice, for once, to be helping instead of hurting. To be an actual Healer instead of playing the dragon.

"Now this one, Fred." She gave him a Blood Replenishing Potion, then a sip of the same one she'd given Dumbledore for shock after she'd taken off his arm. "Now you just rest, Fred. I can't give you anything to help you sleep; it will react with what I've already given you. You don't have to worry about anything, though. We've got you. You're safe. You can rest while the potions do their work. I'll do a spell in a little bit that will help with your muscles."

His muscles were riddled with deep-tissue bruises from the bone fragments and from being compressed. He would hurt from it all, but he'd been lucky. There hadn't been any main arteries nicked by the flying bits of crushed bone.

Basically, he'd be a walking bruise for the next week, but he'd be _walking_.

"ROOKWOOD!" Percy roared half a second later, and leapt out the hole in the castle. He landed roughly, apparently casting a Cushioning Charm on the ground. He sunk into the grass and stumbled on after the Death Eater pursuing a couple of students.

Harry chose that moment to have another vision. He keeled over, and Ron jumped to catch him.

They were silent for a long moment. Hermione cast a diagnostic on Harry, too, for something to do. There was nothing unusual about his reading, though. He was a bit crisp around the edges from the Fiendfyre and his cheek had been sliced open, but he was as he normally was. Which was, of course, the problem.

She fixed his cheek, then turned to Ron and saw to his ills, too.

"He's in the Shrieking Shack. The snake's with him, it's got some sort of magical protection around it," Harry said, coming back to himself without warning. Ron jumped. "He's just sent Lucius Malfoy to find Snape."

"Voldemort's hiding in the Shrieking Shack?" Hermione asked. She hid Fred at the base of the inside wall, casting protective wards around him and making sure he had his wand near his hand; he'd passed out while she was seeing to Harry's cheek, but it was a restful sort of unconsciousness so she let him be.

"He'd not even _fighting_?" Ron asked, incredulous.

"He doesn't think he needs to fight. He thinks I'm going to go to him," said Harry.

"But why?"

"He knows I'm after Horcruxes—he's keeping Nagini close beside him—obviously I'm going to have to go to him to get near the thing—"

"Right," said Ron, squaring his shoulders. "So you can't go, that's what he wants, what he's expecting. You stay here and look after Hermione, and I'll go and get it—"

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.

"You two stay here, I'll go under the Cloak and I'll be back as soon as I—" Harry tried, but Hermione cut him off.

"No. It makes much more sense if I take the Cloak and—"

"POTTER!"

Two masked Death Eaters.

_Glisseo!_

The stairs beneath their feet turned into a chute, and the three of them hurtled down it. She wasn't able to control the speed of the fall, and she was fairly certain that she'd left her stomach back at the top, but the Stunning Spells the Death Eaters cast flew far over their heads. They shot through the concealing tapestry at the bottom and spun onto the floor, hitting the opposite wall.

"_Duro_," she muttered, pointing her wand at the tapestry. There were two loud, sickening crunches as the tapestry turned to stone and the Death Eaters crumpled against it.

"Get back!" Ron shouted, and the three of them flattened themselves against the door as a herd of galloping desks thundered past, shepherded by a sprinting Minerva. Minerva didn't notice them in the least. Her braid had come undone, and she had a gash on her cheek, but she seemed to be almost enjoying herself.

"CHARGE!" Minerva shouted as she rounded the corner.

"The Cloak," Hermione suggested, and Harry pulled it out of his pocket and threw it over the three of them. When they were children, the Cloak had easily covered the three of them. They weren't children any longer. The Cloak flapped around their knees. Hermione added Disillusionment Charms to each of them, and hopefully that would be enough to keep their feet from giving them away.

They ran down the next staircase and found themselves in a corridor full of duelers. The portraits on either side of the fighters were crammed with figures screaming advice and encouragement, while Death Eaters, masked and unmasked, dueled students and teachers.

There was too much movement. There was a strong likelihood of hurting one of their own if they cast curses.

"_Wheeeeeee!_"

Peeves zoomed overhead, dropping Snargaluff pods down onto the Death Eaters, whose heads were suddenly engulfed in wriggling green tubers.

"Argh!" Ron said. A fistful of tubers had hit the Cloak over his head; the slimy green roots were suspended improbably in midair as Ron tried to shake them loose.

"Someone's invisible there!" shouted a masked Death Eater, pointing.

Dean and Parvati took advantage of the Death Eater's distraction, and Hermione hooked her arms through the boys' elbows to hurry them from the corridor.

Harry pulled away, chasing after Hagrid. Hermione followed. It was all madness. There were acromantulas everywhere (so Ron was uselessly clinging to her arm as they ran through it all).

"HAGRID!" Harry bellowed, and then Grawp lurched around the side of castle and set to pummeling a giant twice his size. Harry turned around. "RUN!"

And then there were dementors. At least a hundred of them.

All Hermione could think was that they were too late, that Severus was killed, that Voldemort would survive to make more Horcruxes, and she'd never see her children again.

Her children.

Her fox Patronus shot out of her wand, shining and vibrant. The awful, clinging horribleness of the dementors faded. Ron's terrier formed, then, slower, Harry's stag. They were joined by a hare, a bore and another fox. For a moment, Hermione thought of Severus, but the fox was too small and too pretty.

The dementors scattered as Luna, Ernie and Seamus stepped up beside them.

"Let's get out of range," Ron suggested.

Harry, Ron and Hermione ran for the Whomping Willow again while the others kept driving the dementors back from the castle.

_I should have just Apparated us to the Shack. What was I thinking?_

The earth shook under their feet and another giant came out of the darkness from the direction of the forest, brandishing a club that looked like it had once been most of a tree.

"RUN!" Harry shouted again, but Hermione had already conjured the Fiendfyre. It tried to form the dragon, but she didn't let it. Instead, she whipped it into a wave that crashed over the giant and disappeared in a burst of orange-gold foam. The giant's feet remained, steaming slightly, the hair on top of the toes smoldering a bit.

"Blimey," said Ron, staring at her.

"We need to move," Hermione said, grabbing them by the elbows again. She hoped Harry had the Cloak somewhere because she didn't remember when they'd stopped being under it.

Hermione shoved everything away. Compartmentalized, tamped down her Occlumency shields in the midst of the emotional hurricane. She couldn't think about the wounded she was running by, or Fred barely patched together and left in the castle, or Hagrid—dear, dear Hagrid—carried away into the Forest. Or Severus. Or…

They ran. It seemed like a long time ago that Hermione had gone for a run every morning, and she realized that it had been. She ran anyway.

Jets of light flew all around. She deflected what needed deflecting, following Harry in his single-minded sprint. The air smelled of fire and dust and fresh-turned earth; it was not pleasant.

They arrived at the Willow, and Ron jabbed his wand at a random stick, directing it at the knot. The tree went still.

"Harry, we're coming, just get in there!" Ron said, shoving Harry forward when he hesitated. Hermione followed them.

The earthy passage through the tree's roots was smaller than she remembered it. The tunnel was so low that they all had to duck, even her. And then they had to crawl.

"The Cloak!" she whispered to Harry when they got close to the end of the tunnel. "Put the Cloak on!"

They crept forward as silently as possible. Her knees were killing her, but she ignored it. She could be sore and bruised later, and she definitely would be. Severus could brew her an anti-inflammatory and some fresh Bruise Salve. Or they could share a bath. Maybe even both.

She couldn't see much through the tiny gap at the opening of the tunnel. There was an old crate in the way. She could hear alright, though.

"…my Lord, their resistance is crumbling—"

_Oh gods. Severus. _She wanted to leap up and go to him, to help, to punch Voldemort in his nonexistent nose and drag her husband away to Australia.

She didn't.

"—and it is doing so without your help," Voldemort said. His voice was strangely high, clear. She wondered if it had always been like that or if it was different since his resurrection. It was an odd thing to wonder, but she was curious. "Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do no think you will make much difference now. We are almost there… almost."

"Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I can find him, my Lord. Please." There was a note of desperation in his voice that she wasn't sure anybody else would hear. She prayed Voldemort didn't notice.

There were footsteps, and Harry tensed. Behind him, Ron had a hand pressed over his mouth to muffle the sound of his own breathing. His eyes were wide, panicked. Hermione squeezed her hands into fists and pressed them into her thighs.

"I have a problem, Severus," Voldemort said above, softly.

"My Lord?"

"Why doesn't it work for me, Severus?"

"My—my Lord?" He sounded honestly surprised. Hermione wondered what the hell they were talking about. "I do not understand. You—you have performed extraordinary magic with that wand."

"No," Voldemort said. "I have performed my usual magic. I am extraordinary, but this wand… no. It has not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago."

_Pompous ass_, Hermione thought.

"No difference," Voldemort said again. His voice was musing, calm, and yet Hermione could feel the magic vibrating in the room above. The tension. Something was about to happen, and she doubted she was going to like it.

"I have thought long and hard, Severus," Voldemort said. One of them was walking around again. "Do you know why I have called you back from the battle?"

"No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter."

"You sound like Lucius. Neither of you understands Potter as I do. He does not need finding. Potter will come to me. I know his weakness, you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck down around him, knowing that it is for him that it happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will come."

He was lying. He knew Harry would come because Harry was after Horcruxes. It was also true that Harry wouldn't want others to be hurt in his place, but it was the Horcruxes that were the real draw. They were so close now…

"But my Lord, he might be killed accidentally by one other than yourself—"

"My instructions to my Death Eaters have been perfectly clear. Capture Potter. Kill his friends—the more, the better—but do not kill him."

Harry was tense in front of her, magic and muscle coiled up. He wanted to spring in there, it was obvious. He wanted to attack. Voldemort had gauged that reaction right, sure enough. Harry really did think it was all for him that people were dying. She'd have to explain it later.

"But it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus, not Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable."

_He's going to kill Severus_. The thought echoed in her mind, as certain as sunrise. She felt sick.

"My Lord knows I seek only to serve him. But—let me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to you. I know I can—"

"I have told you, no!" Hermione couldn't breathe. "My concern at the moment, Severus, is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!"

"My Lord, there can be no question, surely—?"

"—but there _is _a question, Severus. There is. Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?"

"I—I cannot answer that, my Lord."

"Can't you? My wand of yew did everything of which I asked it, Severus, except to kill Harry Potter. Twice it failed. Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores, told me to take another's wand. I did so, but Lucius's wand shattered upon meeting Potter's."

"I—I have no explanation, my Lord."

"I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore."

Hermione had read the story of the Elder Wand—_The Tale of the Three Brothers_—but it was just a story. Was Voldemort so mad that he truly thought such a thing could exist? That Dumbledore had possessed it?

Then again, Voldemort had split his soul seven ways. He wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders.

"My Lord—let me go to the boy—" Severus's voice was entirely emotionless. Hermione could feel his Occlumency shields from the hidden tunnel, could picture the blankness of his eyes.

"All this long night, when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here," said Voldemort, his voice barely louder than a whisper, "wondering, wondering, why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner… and I think I have the answer."

The silence was not long, but it was weighty.

"Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen."

"My Lord—"

"The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot be truly mine."

Severus sighed.

"Oh, shit," Hermione muttered. Harry and Ron turned back to look at her. "He's going to—"

"Riddle," Severus said. He was using his classroom voice, talking to Lord fucking Voldemort like a schoolboy who hadn't been paying attention to a lecture. "There is something you do not know."

"You _dare_—"

"Shut up," Severus snapped. There was a sizzle of spells, the snap of impact, and a crash as a window broke upstairs.

"Move," Hermione said quietly, pushing at Harry and Ron. "Go, go!"

"You killed my best friend, did you know that? A very long time ago, now. Lily Potter."

"You desired her, that was all."

"Yes, at the time. That's ancient history, though." The floorboards above creaked like the two were circling each other. "Did you know I was married? For _years_, now. She's Muggle-born."

"Impossible."

"Hardly."

Hermione gave up trying to squeeze past Ron and crawled over him.

"Oy, geroff!" he grumbled, one of his shoulders dropping and sending her off balance. She skidded into the dirt wall, scraping her cheek.

"Why would you lie, Severus? You have been a most loyal servant. You killed—"

"Ah, yes. I killed." Severus's tone was almost mocking. "Not for you, though."

"You took the Vow."

"To protect my godson. I would've done that anyway." Flippant. He was being flippant. She was going to hit him upside the head. "No, I killed Dumbledore because _Dumbledore_ asked me to. He was dying already. That curse you put on the Gaunt ring. A slow, lingering death, sucking the hope out of the Order. He preferred to go a martyr."

It was very quiet. Hermione held her breath, kept perfectly still. She was just behind Harry now, both of them pressed forward near the secret door into the Shack. She could see the snake and its strange magical protection, but not Severus or the Dark Lord.

"No, I was Dumbledore's man for much longer than I ever was yours," Severus said. "He just didn't feel the need to carve his sigil into me."

_He marked his ownership in other ways_, Hermione thought bitterly, thinking of the scars—on his body and on his soul—Dumbledore had allowed.

"And now it ends," Severus said. "You can kill me, of course you can. You are right in that your magic is extraordinary. I probably can't stop you. But I don't have to. You are very nearly mortal, Tom Riddle."

Severus whirled; she could see the flick of his cloak. For a moment, she thought, hoped, he might be Disapparating, but instead he attacked the snake. The last Horcrux.

"Move, Harry! Get out of the way!" she hissed, pushing at him.

He threw off the Cloak, though, and she was tangled in it. Her heart was racing. Her mind was racing.

"Potter!" Voldemort cried above.

"Hello, Tom," Harry said. She heard his wand clatter to the floor. "I'm—"

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

And then two bodies hit the floorboards above, heavy.

"NO!" Hermione cried.

"What's happening? What's happened?" Ron shouted, jostling with her to get a view, to get out of the tunnel.

Something hissed, and then there was a terrible scream. Hermione felt as if she'd been hit with _Petrificus Totalus_. Her blood froze in her veins. She didn't seem to be able to remember how to breathe.

She'd heard Severus in pain. She'd heard him scream and shout and curse, heard him shudder and keen and whimper. This scream tore through her to the core; she'd never heard him scream like this before.

"_VOLARE_!"

She rocketed out of the tunnel, smashing her shoulder into the trapdoor. She overshot, tumbled into a heap near a broken window, and crashed into the wall.

Nagini, the snake, turned away from Severus, crumpled on the floor in a pool of black robes and pale skin, and darted towards her. She shrieked, flinching away reflexively.

"_Incendio_!" Ron shouted, his torso poking up out of the trapdoor. The lick of flames only seemed to annoy the snake, though. It turned toward him, moving faster than such a large legless creature had any right to be able to move. "Shit!"

Ron disappeared back into the tunnel, and Hermione whipped her wand around.

It screamed like a human being as it burned. The Fiendfyre left a long, greasy smear in the dust on the floor where the snake had been.

"Harry? Harry!" Ron shouted, running for his best friend. Hermione cast quick diagnostics on all three of them on the floor. Harry and Voldemort had identical readings down to the weak, thready heartbeats. Severus was bleeding out. Quickly.

"Severus."

He had the antivenin in his pockets. He'd known they'd be going after the snake; he'd been prepared for the eventuality that one of them was bitten.

_Why the fuck does a fucking constrictor have fucking poisonous fucking venom?_

"No, no, no, no," she heard herself say as she got her satchel out of the pocket she'd stashed it in, shoved her arm in and Summoned her kit. "Severus."

He was shaking, losing blood fast. His fingers were at his neck, trying feebly to staunch the flow of blood from the wound there. His mouth moved to form the shape of her name, but no sound came out.

His usually pale face had absolutely no color to it. He was utterly black and white, robes and skin. And splashes of red blood.

"What's wrong with Harry?" Ron shouted. He'd slapped at Harry's cheeks, shaken him. "WHAT'S WRONG WITH HARRY?"

"I don't know!" Hermione shouted back, not turning to look. She uncorked a vial of Blood Replenishing Potion and tipped it into Severus's mouth. He swallowed it down, coughed. A bit of it dribbled out the corner of his mouth, and it looked a bit like blood—fake, too-red blood, like from a Muggle movie.

"Hermione!" Ron shouted, and she felt him grab her shoulder.

"He's a Horcrux, Ron. I don't know what's happening. He should be dead!" She screamed it in his face, shoving his hand off her shoulder. Then she turned back to Severus, hands searching through her kit for the next thing.

Severus went limp, and for a moment she thought he'd died. But no, the blood was still flowing out of him. His heart was still pumping.

Her mouth was running again. She was probably swearing.

She looked to her diagnostics. His heart was barely beating. His brain was starved of oxygen.

_I am kneeling in his lifeblood_, she thought nonsensically.

She wrenched his robes out of the way. Buttons went flying. The exposed wounds were bloody but small. Deep fang punctures from at least three strikes, three bites. One was clean, the others were torn and jagged, the skin ripped around the bite from the moving head of the snake or from Severus falling.

When it had bitten Arthur Weasley, when it had bitten Harry, it had been the venom that prevented healing. That was her first order of business.

_Breathe, Hermione. _His thoughts, instructions, his calming presence in her mind.

She wiped at her face with her sleeve, clearing her vision of the tears, and went for Severus's pocket where he kept his kit, Shrunk like she kept her satchel.

She'd sat on his desk while he brewed the antivenin. They'd flirted for hours while he went through the steps. He'd taken her to bed when he'd taken the cauldron on the flame for the potion to cool.

There it was. Three identical vials, each the size of her longest finger and filled with bile-colored antivenin.

Eight drops under the tongue; he needed a larger dose than Harry because he was bigger, taller. She dumped the rest of the first vial onto his neck. He screamed, writhed.

She stopped swearing and started apologizing.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She tore the strap off her satchel and forced it between his teeth so he'd have something to bite. "I'm sorry."

She shoved his hair out of the way. It was sticking in the blood.

Ten agonizing seconds passed as the first dose of the antivenin burned away the majority of the venom. Hermione dumped the second vial of antivenin into a flat dish and packed it with bandages, letting them soak it up. While she waited for the bandages, she cleaned his neck.

The cap wouldn't come off her jar of charmed thread, so she threw it away from her and picked up her wand. Carefully, she used charms to seal the puncture wounds. Almost as soon as she'd finished, more than half of them opened again.

"FUCK!"

"Here," Ron said in a very small voice. He'd gotten the lid off the jar. A sob tore out of her at the sight of it.

"Thank you."

The stitches held. The potion steamed. Severus bit down on the leather.

Then it was over. She wiped away the blood. Severus was rigid beneath her hands, his breath harsh. She realized that Ron had been holding him bodily to the floor.

"A little more, Severus," she whispered. "Just a little more."

She moved so that his head was propped up in her lap and helped him drink another Blood Replenishing Potion and a Strengthening Solution.

She recast her diagnostic, and her breath shuddered out of her. He was recovering. He would recover.

Hermione stroked his hair. It was knotted, and there was blood in it. She ran her fingers along his scalp, anyway. He liked it when she did that.

She didn't have any potions for pain that didn't also make the drinker sleep; she'd used up all the good ones on Fred. Instead, she took out the paste for numbing and spread a thick layer on his neck. It would be uncomfortable, and it wouldn't be so good a solution as any of the potions would have been, but he wouldn't be able to feel the burn of the antivenin.

She checked the rest of him. No other damage. He'd lost a lot of blood, but he would survive.

She gave him another Blood Replenishing Potion, and his color was beginning to come back. She gave him another Strengthening Solution, too, and bound his neck even though the wounds were closed.

"Hermione," he said, his hands on her cheeks. He wiped away tears, and the moment she realized she was crying she cried harder. Heaving sobs shaking her whole body. He sat up, pulling her sideways across his lap and holding her close. She wrapped her arms around him, careful of the injury, and held on.

Her brain was short-circuiting. She was still cataloguing his reactions, running through the steps of things she'd need to check. Lingering poison? How much venom had entered his system? Would he need more antivenin? More Blood Replenishing Potion? He could only have maybe one more dose of that last before it was too much and his blood vessels would start to crystallize.

She ran out of tears after a few minutes, but she still clung to him. He was holding her close, stroking her hair. Soothing both of them with the contact.

"I love you, Hermione Snape," he said.

"I love you, too."

"Are you hurt?" he asked her, and she shook her head, pulling away. His hand went to the cheek she'd scraped in the tunnel.

"I'm okay. How do _you_ feel?"

"Woozy," he admitted. "But I think I'll live."

_You sure as hell better live_.

He smirked at her, lifting a bloody hand to trace the line of her cheek. She turned into his touch, kissing his fingertips.

_Beautiful_.

The word reached her from Severus's mind, and she laughed out loud. He leaned down, smoothing her hair back from where it stuck to her face in sweat and blood.

"You are."

"You're impossibly biased," she told him, but she felt better. He smirked.

He probably would have said something surprisingly romantic, but Ron interrupted.

"Harry! He's coming around!"

Hermione had entirely forgotten that they weren't alone.

The diagnostics she'd cast were still hovering above them, but they were finally giving different readings. Harry's pulse was growing stronger. Voldemort's was fading.

"What does that mean? What's it doing?" Ron asked. He was up and pacing. His jeans were soaked in Severus's blood from the knee down; he'd been kneeling in the pool of blood just as she had. Even though she'd yelled at him and shoved him away.

She didn't give Ron nearly as much credit as he deserved most of the time.

"Harry's signs are getting stronger," Hermione said, pointing to the runes in the diagnostic floating above Harry.

"And the Dark Lord's?" Severus asked, his voice hoarse.

"He's fading."

"What does that mean? Do you think they're sharing a vision or something?" Ron asked.

"Hopefully we'll be able to ask him," Hermione said.

They waited. Hermione felt like she was barely breathing.

And then, they both jerked awake.

With a yell that startled her, Severus surged forward. He had the crate that had been sitting by the entrance to the tunnel in his hands, and he brought it down hard over Voldemort's head.

The crate shattered. Bits of wood flew every which way. He held a skeleton of the original crate, and he kept bring it down. Again and again.

_Bludgeoned_, Hermione's mind provided.

"Burn him," Severus croaked, staggering away. He dropped the single board left of the crate and leaned against the wall, slid down to sit at the base of it.

Hermione did as he asked, leaving a second greasy mark in the dust.

Harry sat where he'd fallen, blinking at them owlishly from behind crooked glasses.


	46. Chapter Forty-Five

"My mum was your best friend?"

Severus nodded, groaning low as he pushed himself to his feet. Hermione knew better than to try to help him, so she just stood next to him and tried not to look like she was ready to catch him.

"We grew up across the park from each other," Severus said when he'd got his feet under him. He braced himself against the wall for a moment before standing properly.

"No way!" Ron said, grinning. Severus raised an eyebrow at him.

"I didn't spring forth from the abyss, Weasley," he said. Hermione laughed.

Severus smirked at her and began unbuttoning the sleeves of his teaching robes. They were soaked with his blood, crusty with grime from the floor. He let them drop, then unbuttoned his frock coat, too. The white shirt he wore beneath was red-black with blood around the neck.

"Leave it," he said when Hermione lifted her wand to clean him up a bit. She raised her eyebrows at him. "It will make an impression."

"On _whom_?"

"Nobody else knows he's dead, Hermione."

"We can't—"

"We have to fight," Harry interrupted.

"We sure as hell don't! Haven't we given enough to this damned—"

"It's almost over," Severus said, fingertips settling on her elbow. "Let's finish it."

"Well, I'm entirely out of anything useful," she snapped, kicking her kit to make her point. Glass clinked inside of it, but it was too heavy to do much else. "If any of you get hurt, it's on you. I won't be able to fix you."

Severus smirked, just a quirk of his lips. Something in her chest unclenched, and it wasn't a comfortable sensation at all.

_I almost lost you. I can't lose you. Please— _

He tilted her face up to his with a finger under her chin and kissed her gently.

"Er. Can you not?" Ron asked. He looked somewhere between embarrassed and queasy, looking at the broken window instead of them.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but then the school wards vibrated on the edge of her awareness. She couldn't tell what it was, and she looked to Severus. He had stiffened, going so still that Ron blushed.

"Sorry. Er. Sorry, sir. You can—"

"Shut up," Hermione said, waving a hand at him and focusing on Severus. "What was it?"

"A professor crossed the wards under duress."

"That could be anybody. Everybody's under duress right now."

"No. Somebody was forced over the line of the wards."

"Who?"

"That I can't tell."

"How can you tell any of it?" Ron asked.

"I'm the Headmaster of bloody Hogwarts. The wards are constantly sending me information."

"Is that how you knew where the Gray Lady was?" Harry asked her.

"Wait. You were using Legilimency?" Ron asked, frowning.

"No. I'm his _wife_, Ron."

"So?"

"So the wards get tied to the both of us—" She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Nevermind."

"Quickly," Severus said. He slashed his wand at the front door, and blasted it off its hinges. They left, going slowly at first, Severus shaking off the blood loss.

By the time they reached the gates, they were walking quickly. Severus was in front, long legs eating up the distance. They headed for the courtyard just outside the entrance hall. Most of the people in the castle were concentrated there.

As soon as the great oak doors were in sight, Hermione called up the fog and filled it with balls of bluebell flames.

"You're the one who wanted to make an impression," she reminded Severus when he gave her a look. She fingered his collar, crusty with red-brown now.

He shrugged. They kept on.

"Go around through there," Hermione told Harry, pointing through the side courtyard. As far as she could tell through the wards, there was nobody for him to run into going around that way to the entrance hall. "Tell the Order he's dead. Get them out here."

"Right," Harry said, bumping his fist on Ron's shoulder. The pair of them jogged off into the gloom.

There was a strange, near-absolute silence as Hermione and Severus approached the courtyard. The fog thickened; the people began to get nervous, though nobody moved yet.

The Death Eaters were gathered to one side, fanned out facing the castle. The Order and the students who had stayed, a few Aurors, were spilling out of the hall onto the steps.

"The headmaster is coming," a house elf said somewhere between relief and reverence, its squeaky voice cutting through the quiet. A ripple went through both sides. Minerva grinned like a shark.

Hermione and Severus approached from the side, giving them a view of each group arranged to face each other. On the left, the Death Eaters looked… mean. Feral. On the right, the Order looked lean, tired. She would've thought 'defeated' too, except there was iron in them; the backbone hadn't broken yet.

Hermione raised her wand, enlarging the bluebell flames and sending them out into the fog at the Death Eaters. There were five seconds of quiet confusion before they realized they were being attacked. Then it was screaming chaos.

Lucius Malfoy went down first, then his wife. They twitched, muscle control momentarily overwhelmed by the electric shock making them spasm on the ground.

It wasn't revenge to down them first; it was kindness. Getting them out of the way in exchange for their part (or at least his part) in saving the children.

She poured more power into the bluebell flames after that. Debilitating rather than merely knocking them over. Those caught near a ball of bluebell flames froze, rose into the air. Like Katie Bell so many lifetimes ago (and not so very long ago at all).

Severus moved through the Death Eaters, leaving the dead and dying in his wake. They seemed surprised.

Then the Order joined them, and Hermione let the fog and bluebell flames work without her guidance, stunning rather than killing. She kept close to Severus, deflecting what she needed to, sometimes pulling him bodily out of harm's way. The Death Eaters knew he was against them, but most of the Order seemed unclear on that.

She was trying to duel one of the Lestrange brothers and deflect the curses Molly Weasley kept shooting towards Severus when Harry and Ron burst onto the scene.

"Get _down_," she shrieked, because they were standing stock still at the top of the stairs, perfectly framed in the door to the entrance hall.

They didn't hear her over the chaos. Beside her, Severus swore.

"Go," he said, spinning to put a wall to his back. She nodded and Apparated to the stairs in front of Harry and Ron.

"Are you _stupid_? Truly?" Hermione asked, shoving them backwards into the entrance hall.

"They still think they're under orders not to attack me," Harry said.

"Not to _kill_ you," Hermione corrected.

"So cover me."

"_What_?"

"_Sonorous_," Harry muttered, wand to his throat, then stepped around Hermione and faced the fighting again. "VOLDEMORT IS DEAD!"

Almost everything stopped. A cheer ran through the defenders of the castle, mostly the students who thought that meant the fighting would stop. The Death Eaters paused, looked at each other, looked at their forearms.

The Dark Mark was gone. She hadn't even thought to look at Severus's arm.

She looked for him. He'd moved from where they'd been. She worried for a moment, because that meant he didn't have a wall for his back—but there he was. Not so very much further. He had found Bellatrix Lestrange.

Bellatrix looked almost like she'd been caught off guard. She backed up steadily as Severus advanced. Spells flew between them, cracking through the air, occasionally rebounding off each other but more often refracting away off Shield Charms.

The fight resumed around her, and yet Hermione couldn't react. It was Ron that yanked her and Harry out of the doorway.

"WHAT—" Harry started, but then realized his voice was still amplified.

"_Finite_," Hermione said, pointing her wand at his neck. He nodded to her.

"Why don't they stop?"

"Because it's not just about bloody Voldemort, is it?" she snarled at him. "It's not about the stupid prophesy or any of that. They're Death Eaters because it's how they think. They like the fight. They like the man in charge telling them can hurt people, encouraging them to hurt people. And because the Boy Who Lived didn't exist when they started fighting, just them hating people for no good reason."

Harry was looking at her like he'd somehow managed to miss all of that in his introduction to the wizarding community of Britain.

Hagrid bellowed, distracting them. He'd been amidst the Death Eaters, wound up in ropes and with two burly Death Eaters holding him in place.

"We've got to help him," Harry said, dashing off down the stairs.

"Imbecile," Hermione muttered, but followed him.

Light spilled out of the entrance hall behind her, bathing the stone courtyard in gold. It was eerily pretty.

She lost sight of Harry almost immediately. Ron vanished from her side. She couldn't even pinpoint Severus in the crowd. There were fighters all around her. Screaming. The crackle of spells, the crunch of an impact as somebody fell.

A Snatcher—he was too inept to be a Death Eater—stepped in front of her. He sneered, holding his wand out to one side in a sort of mocking 'shall we fight' stance. She punched him in the face, and he stumbled and fell, cracked his head and didn't get up.

Neville ran past her bellowing, waving the Sword of Gyffindor with both hands.

She was aware of a roar from the perimeter wall, adult witches and wizards arriving on the grounds. Grawp was in the courtyard shouting for Hagrid. Hooves and bows twanged as the centaurs arrived.

Hermione almost tripped over a head that had rolled to a stop at her feet when she'd looked up to see the centaurs. It was Bellatrix Lestrange, her jaw hanging loose, half her hair chopped off by the same severing spell that had removed her head. There was a pretty silver swirl on her cheek from the Cruciatus Curse.

There was a bang like a Muggle gun and Hermione was knocked off her feet, throw backwards and up. A thick cord had wrapped around her neck, the spell lifting it up and up, lifting her into the air.

_You're a target up here_, she thought, as if she wasn't already under attack. As if she didn't have more important things—like strangling—to worry about.

She'd lost her knife long ago. Anything useful in her kit was impossible to get to with it deep in a pocket. She'd managed to keep her wand in her fist, though.

_Volare!_

She outpaced the rise of the strangling cord, racing higher. She spun in the air, trying not to think about the imminent need to descend, and looked down on the courtyard.

Hagrid had gotten loose and was making good use of his overlarge fists. Minerva and Sprout stood together near the stairs dueling a trio of Death Eaters in full robes and masks. Kinglsey was shouting and pointing, directing a small contingent of Aurors. Harry and Ron had found each other, and most of the D.A. was with them fighting their way to Hagrid.

Severus was dueling Fenrir Greyback. The werewolf was wounded, but it only seemed to make him meaner. Severus was backing up.

A spell—she couldn't tell what it was, but the flash of it was purple—got past Severus's Shield Charm and she lost her focus, began to fall. Entirely without dignity, she flailed, remembered she was a witch, recast the charm but in the wrong direction, and shot off diagonally. She crashed into Greyback, knocking him on his ass. She rolled, elbows tucked, and landed on her belly.

Severus surged to his feet, putting himself between her and Greyback. The werewolf had barely begun to recover, hand feeling around for his wand as he rolled onto his side, when Severus screamed a series of curses, his wand less than a foot away. Greyback sort of crunched in on himself, then flopped sideways. A pair of gray tentacles sprouted from the center of his chest, quivering like they were made of jelly and flopping uselessly over onto the ground.

Greyback shuddered and died. Severus turned to her, and offered a hand up.

"Did he get you?" she asked, using her grip on his hand to pull him behind a column.

"I'm fine."

Their column exploded in a shower of chipped stone and pretty blue sparks.

The fight never seemed to end. The moment one enemy was dispatched, another appeared to take his place. A Dementor very nearly got its lips on a student Hermione didn't recognize; Severus redirected it to Yaxley while she made a Portkey out of a button and sent the boy to the hospital wing. Hagrid ran past waving his pink umbrella, trailed by Grawp. Hermione conjured the Fiendfyre, keeping it small, restricting it to the tiny dragon she'd used when they'd gone into the Department of Mysteries, the one that reminded her of the drawing of Smaug from her childhood copy of "The Hobbit." Her Smaug dashed around friends and through foes, twisting and banking, leaving a flaming wake of ash and the smell of burnt hair.

She didn't think she'd ever get the sound of the screams out of her head.

And then it was over.

Harry and the D.A. had joined up with Kingsley and the Aurors. The remaining Death Eaters had clumped at one side of the courtyard, and then that was it. They were Stunned, disarmed, bound. The D.A. started cheering.

"Four in the corridor outside the kitchens," Severus said, eyes focused on the middle distance as he examined the feedback from the castle wards. "The Carrows are still in Ravenclaw Tower. One at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. Three in the gallery."

"I'll take the kitchens if you want the other two," Hermione said, and he nodded. The Carrows were neutralized; they could wait.

The presences detected by the wards outside the kitchen didn't register as student or teacher, and it turned out to be the Lupins facing off against a pair of Death Eaters. She Apparated to the end of the hall just in time to see Tonks blast the taller Death Eater back into a wall, and then the remaining Death Eater collapsed the ceiling on them.

_Sectumsempra_!

She should have disarmed him and wrapped him in ropes, immobilized him. She should've stopped the bleeding enough that he'd survive. But she didn't. She stood over him and watched him bleed out.

She didn't feel anything.

The taller Death Eater began to come around, and she twitched, jabbing her wand at him. _Levicorpus! _He hung upside down, flailing his arms and swearing while Hermione waited for the other one to finish dying. Then she conjured ropes and pocketed his wand, casting a Silencing Spell on him when he wouldn't stop shouting at her.

It was too easy to magic the huge chunks of stone off Remus and Tonks. It should have been harder. It should have taken more effort to shift the mass that killed them.

Somehow, they had died holding hands.


	47. Chapter Forty-Six

Hermione had managed to remove the Lupins to conjured stretchers when Phineas appeared in a nearby portrait—a nun in full habit currently sobbing into a hanky—and began shouting at her.

"Madam Snape! You're needed in the entrance hall at once! Madam Snape! _Now_, Madam Snape!"

"What is it?" she asked dumbly. She wiped at the tears on her cheeks, striving for composure.

"_Go to the entrance hall, Madam_!"

"But the—"

"Leave them!" Phineas waved his hands frantically. "The headmaster needs you _now_."

Hermione conjured a large white sheet to cover the Lupins, Stunned the tall Death Eater still hanging upside down, and Disapparated.

When she'd left the entrance hall, people had been organizing themselves, bringing the wounded to the hospital wing, collecting the Death Eaters. She and Severus had gone to chase down the last signals from the wards, people who weren't supposed to be in the castle.

Severus was back in the entrance hall, standing surrounded by Aurors. He held his hands out to his sides, nonthreatening. The Auror nearest him had him at wandpoint but stood a good two paces away; it appeared he wasn't under immediate arrest. Kingsley and Minerva stood to one side, talking quickly and quietly.

"What's going on?" Hermione snapped, finding herself staring down the business end of four Aurors' wands.

_They're trying to decide if I'm under arrest or not_.

"If you put him in there with the Death Eaters, they will kill him," Hermione said, her voice flat.

"Miss Granger—" Kingsley started, but Hermione shook her head and interrupted him.

"Madam Snape, actually."

_That's not going to help you at all_, Severus told her, smirking down at his feet while the Aurors looked at each other for cues on how to react.

Harry walked in, surrounded by Weasleys.

"What's going on?"

"Exactly what it looks like," Hermione said, fighting the inclination to go for her wand and hex them all into oblivion.

"You can't _arrest_ him," Harry said, a crooked grin growing on his face, "he's the one who killed Voldemort."

"With a box," Ron added.

There was a tense moment. The Aurors looked between themselves. Finally, after a sharp look from Minerva, Kingsley called it.

"We have more important things to worry about," he said. At his gesture, the Auror nearest Severus returned his wand. "Just don't leave the castle until we've taken your statement, alright?"

Severus nodded and crossed to Minerva, who looked like she wanted to transform into a cat and claw somebody's calves. Hermione joined them, firmly ignoring the looks she was getting form the Aurors and most of the Weasleys.

* * *

The Aurors were organizing the captured Death Eaters, Snatchers and assorted hangers-on; the members of the Order who were still on their feet paired off to go around the perimeter wall and put protections in place on any gaps. Hagrid was dispatched to the main gate.

"Oh my God, Fred!" Hermione said, looking at George.

"No," said George, turning to show her his lack of an ear. "The other one."

"No, no. I've just remembered Fred!"

"What about him?"

"Come with me."

Severus went to the hall outside the kitchens. Travers hung limp in his bindings, hovering less than two paces from a large white sheet. He knew the Lupins were beneath it, but he couldn't seem to wrap his head around it.

The last Marauder. Of all of them, the most tolerable. The one who had only indirectly bullied him, not stepping in to stop what he could have. The only one who had apologized for that near-fatal encounter. (He hadn't wanted to hear it, of course; he'd been sixteen and mad as hell.)

But so much had changed since he was sixteen. So much had changed in just the last few months—Lupin had a son. An orphan now.

Severus sighed and levitated the Lupins carefully. He let the Death Eaters float along behind him, entirely undignified, the dead one occasionally bumping against the unconscious one.

Back in the entrance hall, he handed Travers over to one of the Aurors and brought the other three into the Great Hall where they had begun to collect the dead. The bodies didn't go wall to wall by any means, but the number of them was still staggering.

He lay the Lupins in line with the defenders who had died. He didn't want to look at them all and feel guilty for surviving—hadn't they deserved luck enough to outlive him?

He turned his back on them when he saw little Denise Clearwater, a fourth year Hufflepuff, in the line of the dead. She should have been evacuated, but instead she'd died in a flannel nightgown patterned in duckies. Had she been running? Had she tried to fight?

Instead, he walked to the line of the fallen Death Eaters, Snatchers and the other scum the Dark Lord had unearthed for the fight. He'd wanted cannon fodder, and he'd had an alarming number of volunteers.

Somebody had set Bellatrix Lestrange's head next to the stump of her neck. He'd hoped it would be lost after it had tumbled away into the fighting, but it was probably best that it had been found. Some first year would probably have stumbled on it come September, rotting, and been traumatized.

It was difficult to resist the urge to kick the head across the hall. _She's dead; it's just a corpse now_, he had to remind himself. He could vividly recall the way his palm had throbbed as he'd held her steady. His hand stretched around her neck, squeezing tight while she writhed, scratched at him. He'd kept his wand on her cheek and hadn't felt the burn of the scratches until much later, well after he'd watched her head roll away, watched her body crumple in a heap, leaking blood and fluid all over the stones.

"Mourning fallen friends?" One of the Aurors; he didn't know the name.

"Trying to convince myself that _their_ deaths were worth _their_ deaths," he said, pointing from one line of bodies to the other.

The Auror glared suspiciously. Severus almost rolled his eyes, but didn't. Instead, he bent down and fixed the sheet over the Lupins, then left the Hall.

A jab of his wand Silenced the Death Eaters who shouted when he passed them, calling him 'traitor' and every foul thing he'd heard from the general public not so long ago.

He went to his office. The gargoyle guarding the staircase was listing dangerously to one side and he wondered if somebody had tried to get in, or if it had just been a stray curse.

"Why don't you just step over here for now, hm?" Severus directed, helping the gargoyle limp to one side of the door. "There's a good lad. You rest there for a bit."

_Gods, I'm speaking to the statuary. And channeling Dumbledore while I do it._

In the office, most of the portraits were empty. They'd be around the school taking stock of things, or trying to help where they could. Derwent had probably gone to the hospital wing or her portrait at St. Mungo's. Dumbledore would probably be in his frame at the Ministry directing the political coup.

In the quiet, Severus sank down to the floor beside the door. The stone was cool beneath him and behind him as he sat back. He sat there for a moment, trying to just be blank, trying not to think about all that had happened and all that had to be done.

His Occlumency wouldn't come. The familiar blankness that he'd relied on for so long. His shields were nonexistent. They'd shattered when he'd shattered the Dark Lord's skull.

The tears came on quite suddenly. They shook his body, made it difficult to breathe.

When he calmed, he was only half surprised to see Minerva next to him. She was squatting in front of him, both of her hands holding tightly to one of his.

"You shouldn't sit like that," he said stupidly. "Your knees will hurt."

Minerva beamed at him. "My knees will hurt anyway after the night we've had."

"I suppose that's true."

"Oh you suppose, do you? Well I'm glad I have your approval."

His lip twitched. He had half a mind to smile at her, but it didn't seem right after coming from the Great Hall.

He could feel the physical aches and the soul-deep exhaustion that had been creeping up on him for the last few hours. The adrenalin had kept it at bay, and some of it had leaked out with the tears. He felt wrung-out now.

"I could sleep the clock around," he said

He could feel himself leaving the adrenalin behind, coming out of the disorientation and racing heartbeat. All he felt was tired. And sore.

"That sounds lovely," she said, easing herself down onto the floor next to him. They sat on the cool stone for a long time, looking out at the office. He didn't know what she was thinking about, but he was thinking about his children. He hoped they were peacefully asleep in Edinburgh.

The wards, which had been silent claxons ringing for his attention for what felt like most of his life, eventually drew him off the floor. He manipulated the spindly devices, turning off the ringing in his ears,

"Thank you," Minerva said, rubbing her temples. He smirked at her.

He desperately wanted to showerand sleep, but instead he sat behind the big desk and began sorting through the papers. The disciplinary requests could be discarded. The Ministry would hardly be open to receive official requests to postpone O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, but they could be drafted. The Board of Governors would need to be contacted, though of course most of them were likely to be arrested in the next few days.

Severus started making a list of all the people he knew the Dark Lord had been blackmailing, keeping a list on the other side of the parchment of the people he knew had been aiming to earn a Dark Mark.

"You don't have to do that now," Minerva told him when she realized what he was up to.

"Whoever comes out of the coup at the Ministry will need this list."

"But not right now."

"Time is of the essence, Minerva. They are men with power. They can easily flee the country."

"They'll be tracked down."

"Better to get them before they leave."

She had no idea the atrocities some of the men on the list had committed. The Muggle Fights had merely been the most public incarnation of their blood sports. The things they'd enjoyed in private…

He shuddered and kept on with the list.

"What happened to your neck?"

His hand went to the bandage. It was tender, sensitive like a burn. "He set the snake on me."

"Before or after you picked up the crate?"

"Before," he said, smirking. "He was going on about his wand not working properly because he hadn't been the one to kill its last owner. He was going to kill me. Potter leapt in and attacked him, but not before he'd loosed the snake."

Nagini had always made his skin crawl. An enormous snake, venom highly lethal, able to talk to the Dark Lord. Also it was a giant snake. Fucking huge.

He dropped his hand from the bandage, wondering if he actually needed it. Hermione had patched him up, and it didn't feel like it was bleeding anymore. Maybe it hadn't healed fully, though; maybe the venom had complicated things, maybe it was still as raw as it felt.

"Hermione was there. If she hadn't been, if she hadn't known what to do, I'd be dead."

Minerva surprised him by hugging him again.

\\\

They'd parted ways for a bit. Minerva had still been in her dressing gown, and he'd been crusty with his own blood.

He showered, scrubbing himself raw. He'd found dirt and blood in the strangest places. He was sore all over. His neck hurt where the snake had bit him, and despite Hermione's expert attentions the scars were vibrantly red and pink against his pale skin, slightly raised with irritation. He'd used a Sticking Charm and gauze to cover it and keep his collar from rubbing. He didn't bother to shave, wondering if Hermione might like him to regrow that beard. Also he didn't think his hands were steady enough not to slice his damned nose off if he tried to hold the razor (or worse, use magic).

His joints were sore and his bones ached from too much Blood Replenishing Potion—to be precise, it was the bone marrow causing problems, but it _felt_ like he had a bone-deep ache going.

Jeans, a plain black t-shirt. It was wonderful to look down at his arms and see no sign of the Dark Mark. It was truly gone.

The earsplitting roar that met his reentry into the office made him flinch, taking a step back so that he was partially blocked from the room by the door frame. He had his wand in hand, ready to start cursing, when he realized it was applause. All around, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were giving him a standing ovation, waving their hats and wigs. They were shaking each others' hands, dancing on their chairs. Dilys Derwent was a mess of tears. Dexter Fortescue waved an ear trumpet. Phineas Nigellus Black was shouting about Slytherin House.

Dumbledore stood in his portrait behind the desk, crying openly, beaming with pride. Severus glared at all of them and desperately wished he didn't have things to do in the room. He'd never been recognized for the things he did, and especially not by the people he so desperately wanted recognition from.

"Enough," he said after a moment, striding down the stairs like it was any other day. He kept his back straight, his chin up. It was imperative they didn't know how uncomfortable they made him.

"Severus, dear boy," Dumbledore said, dabbing at his eyes with a lacy handkerchief, "well done."

Severus nodded, recognizing the statement, then focused his attention back to the desk. He was halfway through his letter of resignation when Minerva came in. She looked exactly as she always did, hair in a perfect bun, tartan robes pinned in place with some sort of clan brooch.

_What a fucking day._

"So," said Minerva, taking the chair across the desk without being asked. She looked exhausted and he wondered what she'd been up to.

"So," he said, smirking at her. She smiled.

"The ghosts are sweeping the castle for damage. They'll be here as soon as they're done to fill us in. The dormitories are undamaged, luckily. The remaining students are in their beds, and the Order and some villagers have pallets in their old common rooms. The house elves seem to be dealing with the stress of all this by cooking."

Severus smirked, still working on the letter.

"Kingsley, Arthur, and everybody else who works for the Ministry has gone to London to try to sort things out. Do you have those lists finished?"

"I sent them on to Arthur shortly before you arrived."

"Good."

He'd split the list up into people who had been Imperiused, and people who had been blackmailed, extorted or otherwise coerced. It was a list he'd been keeping in his head for years, just waiting to be able to put it on paper.

"Did you collect the Carrows yet?" he asked, suddenly remembering.

"Filius and Pomona did. They're in the entrance hall with the Aurors now."

"Good."

"So what's next?" Minerva asked. Severus signed his resignation and sat back, a strange peace taking up residence in his chest cavity. It was very nice.

He handed her the letter of resignation and smirked again when her eyebrows shot up. It proposed her as headmistress, and of course she would be. The Board of Governors (or what little remained of it) would have to officially accept his nomination and all that, but they would.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Severus, you've built your career here. And you really are a good headmaster…"

"Yes, when you look past all the concessions I've had to make to madmen and megalomaniacs."

Minerva raised an amused eyebrow. Behind him, Dumbledore's portrait huffed out an annoyed breath. Severus smirked.

"I'm done at Hogwarts, Minerva. If you desperately need a substitute, feel free to call upon me, but I won't be teaching here again. It would be… awkward. At best. And I want the time with my family."

"Your family!" Dumbledore said, jabbing a finger at them. "Severus. Your _family_. It was—"

"Oh, Minerva, you should have been here when they told him they were married!" one of the portraits shouted down at them.

"Come now, Severus—" Dumbledore began again only to be interrupted by a cackle from one of the other portraits, higher up on the wall to Severus's left.

"Don't you try it, you old goat!" It was Dilys Derwent, of course. She liked to stir up arguments. "You should've been here when he found out they were married, McGonagall!" Derwent said, hooting with laughter. "If he could've had a stroke, he would've. Personally, I don't know where he got the pigment to turn that color purple."

"I hardly—" Dumbledore tried, but Derwent talked over him. Severus looked on, watching the painted Dumbledore go from pink to red. He would miss this part about being headmaster, at least. When lives weren't hanging on his lies and he wasn't terrified for Hermione out there in the woods, the former heads were damned amusing.

"Oh, _you hardly_," Derwent mocked. She looked down at Minerva and Severus, eyes gleaming with mirth. "He went on for _hours_. Hours. They had duties to perform, orders to fulfill. How can you let yourselves be so distracted? I had thought better of your devotion to the cause, both of you." Her impression of Dumbledore was quite good, actually. "And _what_ of Harry Potter?"

Dumbledore had his face hidden behind long, painted fingers and was shaking his head, but his shoulders were shaking with what was probably laughter.

"Tell her about the day she told him she was pregnant," Dumbledore said, coming out from behind his hands. Severus repressed the blush he felt coming on and glared up at Derwent, _daring_ her to continue.

"I quite like my canvas whole and unmolested, thank you," Derwent said.

"Of course, we didn't know that was what she'd told him."

"It is a nice change of pace to get a _young_ headmaster," one of the others said, a headmaster whose name he couldn't recall. The portrait was higher up than Derwent's, older.

"Such verve for life," said another.

"That's quite enough, thank you," Severus said, cutting off further comments. He was blushing now, and felt like he was fifteen again, caught out after curfew by the Head of Gryffindor.

* * *

Intent mattered more than anything. That was why there were so many ridiculous hexes, like the Jelly Legs Jinx. Not particularly harmful, not particularly useful, but funny. A trick to play on friends.

Intent was what made Healing tricky. If a mishap was intended in jest, it could be cleared up quickly. The Accidental Spell Damage ward at St. Mungo's saw the most traffic and the least number of fatalities. (Sure, it produced quite a few long-term cases, but things usually cleared up eventually.)

The intent of all the spells during the fight had not been light-hearted. A Stinging Hex was intended to distract and debilitate, not annoy.

Hermione hadn't thought beyond getting Fred to the hospital wing. She hadn't actually planned to spend the rest of the night going from one bed to the next, then out into the hall when they ran out of beds.

She'd never imagined it would be possible for the hospital wing to run out of beds. The neat rows of them all down the ward had always seemed so _surplus_, no more than a handful ever in use.

\\\

Time had gotten away from her. It seemed like she'd hardly blinked—she'd got Fred to a bed and cast diagnostics, and the next moment she was sitting at the foot of an empty bed, the bedding Vanished as a total loss to the mess of injury. Dawn was breaking yellow and pink and white in the tall windows of the ward.

Poppy hurried past, though she strode with purpose now instead of that rushing half-panic of the night hours. The school matron had directed them all—Hermione and the small contingent of Healers from St. Mungo's—as if she did it every day.

Severus sat down beside her and took her hand. He'd had a shower at some point, lucky bastard. His fingers were splotched with ink and his hair was pulled back—making arrangements, then.

"How are you?"

"Tired," she said. "I'm very tired." She leaned into him, putting her head on his shoulder. It was like she'd forgotten how to breathe but now she'd remembered and it hurt but she still felt better than she had when she hadn't been breathing. "How are you?"

"I'll be okay."

"Your neck?" She flicked her fingers, casting the diagnostics almost without thinking. Residual inflammation, a bit of anemia. She Summoned her kit, but of course she was out of everything she was looking for.

"It hurts but it doesn't feel like it's going to kill me."

"Come on."

Slughorn had set up in an attached room Hermione hadn't known existed. It was either for quarantine or privacy, there was no telling. It didn't matter, anyway. He'd set up a lab, calling his things up from his quarters and putting a pair of sixth year Ravenclaws to work chopping and stirring.

"I need blood moss," she said, headed for the table (a bit rounded at the edges since it had been a hasty transfiguration from a bed) that held raw ingredients. "And is there any beetroot?"

She answered her own question, finding the beetroot as well as dandelion and burdock root. She put a bit of each in an iron mortar and started grinding it all into paste with an iron pestle. When it began to get powdery, she added honey.

"Blood Replenishing Potion would be faster," Slughorn observed when she stirred the paste into a glass of water and handed it to Severus. It wouldn't taste particularly good, though the honey would soften it a bit at least. He needed the iron, though.

"He's already had too much," she said, taking the glass from him and Vanishing it when he'd drunk the whole thing.

She took the bandage off his neck, gently probing his injury with fingers and spells. He was right that it wasn't going to kill him. It would be a vivid scar, and would likely take ages to fully close up properly, but it would just be another scar. They both had worse

"I'm fine," Severus said. She nodded, putting the gauze back in place to be a barrier between his raw skin and his shirt.

_I thought you were dead_, she could admit to him in the quiet of their minds. _We were listening in the tunnel. I was wondering if we should just burst up and attack, and then… Then I heard you scream_.

The sound of it echoed in her mind, shattering her Occlumency at long last. She was crying against, and Severus pulled her to his chest, wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

"And I saw you," she said, because she couldn't make eye contact with her face pressed to his shoulder but she didn't want to move. "I've seen you pretty bad, Severus. Never like that. Right on the artery, blood spurting, blood everywhere…" She shuddered.

He rubbed her back, slow, soothing circles, and then pulled back to look down at her face. He kissed her lips gently. "Come now."

He led her out of the makeshift lab. She couldn't bring herself to be embarrassed to have lost her calm in front of Slughorn and the students. She didn't care.

Severus led her through the halls, and the walk was calming. He held her hand tight in his. His fingers were an anchor, solid and real and _alive_ around hers.

* * *

Waiting for the appointed time, Severus scribbled ideas for the staff meeting on a spare bit of parchment. Minerva would be making the rounds to gather the professors. They'd agreed on eight because it gave everybody time to mentally prepare, but not enough time for a nap. He wanted to have things out between him and the staff before the reporters figured out what had happened and started trying to sneak in.

At quarter to, Severus gathered his things and left for the staff room. He would be early, but he figured that would be a good thing.

Of course, the rest of the staff had beaten him. He opened the door, his attention on the list in his hand, and noted the immediate tension. The room had the feel of a place that had been full of conversation one minute until the topic of that conversation had bumbled in.

"Am I late?" he asked stupidly, checking his pocket watch and reconfirming that he was, in fact, more than ten minutes early.

Pomona Sprout burst into tears. Horace Slughorn sort of shifted, like he wanted to approach but didn't dare. Vector, veins much less pronounced than when he'd seen her in the hospital wing, twitched. Minerva beamed at him from her usual spot at the long table on the right-hand of whoever sat at the head of the table.

"There ye are!" Hagrid cried, coming up behind him, the last one to arrive, and scooping him into a bone-crushing hug. "Ye did it, Perfessor!"

Severus patted Hagrid's arm gently, not sure what the fuck he was supposed to say. To any of them.

"Are those _jeans_?" Hooch squawked from across the room when Hagrid put him down, and Severus frowned down at his jeans, visible from the knee down under the frock coat he'd put on on his way out of his office.

"I _like _jeans," he said defensively, making his way to his place and knocking on the table twice to request food from the elves. Unlike the staff meeting at the beginning of the year, everybody was sitting together at the table instead of scattered throughout the room. He didn't know if that meant anything; all that mattered at the moment was that they'd all have easy access to the food. He was famished.

"_You _like jeans." Hooch was gaping.

Minerva laughed again, then said, "He's married, too."

The professors looked at him shrewdly, obviously trying to decide if they believed it or not. He rolled his eyes and added, "Married with_ children_."

The food arrived, and he enjoyed their reactions while he served up a hearty plate for himself and tucked in, smirking conspiratorially. The elves had even provided several bottles of wine, and damn the hour because none of them had slept anyway. Besides, they'd probably need it by the end of the meeting.

"But who… who did you marry, Snape?" Madam Pince asked, looking earnest. He raised an eyebrow and pierced her with a look—as if any of them hadn't seen (or heard the story of) him and Hermione sweeping into the courtyard together.

"Hermione Granger," he said at last, resuming eating. There were mutters along the table and he scowled. "There was a Time Turner involved."

"Hermione Granger is eighteen!" Vector said, affronted.

"Quite a lot with the Time Turner," Severus said. "It's a long story, but she was closer to thirty when she returned to Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays last year."

"At which point they were already married, of course," Minerva said, smiling fondly at him. He glanced around the table sheepishly.

Minerva corroborated the Time Turner's existence, talking a bit about her summer with Hermione and Hermione's excellent N.E.W.T. scores. Severus let that be it—he didn't want to explain the details of his life to them at large. He'd probably tell Hagrid and Minerva (they already knew most of it, anyway), possibly Vector (because Hermione liked her) and Pomona, maybe Flitwick. Definitely not Horace Slughorn, that wanker.

"What we need to talk about," Severus said at long last, pushing his plate away and refilling his wine glass, "is what happens at Hogwarts next."

There were murmurs, but they quickly died away.

"The school governors will be here tomorrow morning for a tour of the school, confirming the damages and such as they like to do…"

And on it went.


	48. Chapter Forty-Seven

Hermione had never given a formal statement before. When the radio studio had been attacked, she'd run before the Aurors started tracking people down for their statements.

They were in an empty classroom, desks all stacked together against one wall. It was dusty, unused, but undamaged from the fight.

The Auror, Erikson, sat on one side of the teacher's desk and she sat on the other. There was a tea service between them, which he told her to help herself to. (She did—she'd lost count of the Invigoration Draughts she'd been taking, and good old-fashioned caffeine sounded like a wonderful idea.)

There were two Quick Quotes Quills hovering at the ready above scrolls of parchment. They were short and black, one of them a bit scruffy. Very different from Skeeter's acid green Quill.

Auror Erikson had quill and parchment ready, too. Jill Baxter, junior undersecretary to the minister of a department Hermione couldn't remember, was in the corner as a witness, no quill for notes. Baxter had been an informant for the Order; Hermione had met her at least twice, if only briefly.

"Very well. Let the record reflect that it is now eight in the morning on the third of May, 1998. Present at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Ministry for the official statement of Madam Hermione Snape, nee Granger, concerning the hostilities that took place at the aforementioned school on the evening of May the second, are Jamie Erikson, Auror of record, and Jill Baxter, Undersecretary to the Minister of Magical Transportation, as witness. You may begin, Madam Snape."

Hermione started talking. She began in Severus's office and didn't stop until she'd caught up to Erikson's arrival that morning looking to take Severus's statement. Since he'd been in a staff meeting, she'd accompanied him to the bare classroom.

Erikson sporadically asked her to clarify details or elaborate on events as she could. She had to spell "horcrux" for him, and it was clear by how calmly he took in the information that there had been so many to destoy that he didn't actually know what they were.

"And how long had you been in the castle prior to the attack, Madam Snape?" he asked when she'd finished.

"Hours. I'd been arrested for breaking into Gringotts and brought to a holding cell for unregistered Muggle-borns at the Ministry. The Death Eaters moved me from the Ministry to a cage at Malfoy Manor, where I was set to participate in their Muggle Fights. My husband rescued me and brought me here."

She didn't want to tell them about how long she'd stood in his shower and stared at the new scars on her arm. She sure as hell wasn't going to tell them that she'd needed a good hour sitting on Severus's lap like a child while she cried before he'd got an intelligent word out of her.

"Thank you for your time, Madam," Erikson said. Then, for the official record that the scrolls filled by the Quick Quotes Quills would become, he said, "Thus concludes the official statement of Madam Hermione Snape, this the third of May, 1998."

He collected the Quick Quotes Quills and she skimmed the scrolls to be sure everything had been taken down accurately before signing and dating at the bottom.

She saw herself out while Erikson tried to think of something to say. Or maybe he was waiting for her to leave so that he could go collect whoever was next on his list—there seemed to be a team of Aurors assigned to sorting out what, exactly, had taken place during the fight, and Erikson was one of a few who had started pulling people aside.

Hermione went to Severus's office when she was finished, but he wasn't there. She requested a light lunch and the elves delivered a four course meal for five. She nibbled at it, organizing their paperwork for the Records Office. Their marriage license, the children's birth certificates, the letter Dumbledore had given her vouching for the Time Turner's existence, her official certificates of completion for the Healing program in France, her N.E.W.T. scores.

It was well past noon when Severus sent her a message on her palm, and she gathered her things to meet him in the atrium at the Ministry. He looked as worn out as she felt. (She was fairly sure he hadn't even bothered trying to count the number of potions he'd taken to stay on his feet this long.)

"How did your statement go?" he asked, lacing his fingers through hers as they walked. The Ministry was buzzing with activity. Most employees had shown up for work as usual and discovered that everything had changed overnight. Things were in uproar, to say the least.

"Surprisingly easy," she said, watching a serious-looking witch do a double-take at them so quickly that she almost fell into the wall. Hermione smirked. "They just let me talk. Erikson asked a few questions. Who was your witness? I got Baxter."

"Elpheba Benoit. I got David Adams as the Auror on record, though. Idiot."

"Done now, right?"

"Next come the hearings, though. For the war, explaining it all to them. They'll have to decide who to put on trial."

"That will take longer than an hour with an Auror, I suppose."

"Too right. It will be weeks just for you and I, and we were only one part of it."

"Rather intense part, though."

"Potter will have to explain the horcruxes."

"You think they'll get him in for a hearing?"

"Shacklebolt has been named Acting Minister. He'll do it thoroughly, and he'll do it by the book. We'll all be in for hearings."

"Good. I suppose."

They reached the Records Office. It was, not surprisingly, much quieter than some of the other parts of the building.

"Headmaster!" a clerk said at the sight of them, his eyebrows shooting up. "That was fast."

"I beg your pardon?" Severus asked, raising one of his own eyebrows. The clerk—a young man that reminded her too much of Percy Weasley, though his hair was black instead of red and he didn't wear glasses—was young enough that he'd probably been Severus's student, and the eyebrow made him stand up straight and wince in preparation for the loss of House points. Hermione smirked.

"I only sent you the owl five minutes ago, sir. You're more than punctual this morning."

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" Severus asked, the 'you idiot' at the end of the question clear even though he left it off. The clerk gulped, glancing at her like she might help him with the answer but she merely looked at him.

"Some sort of change in command. I've really no idea, sir. I just keep the files straight."

"Of course you do," Severus said, the hand that wasn't holding hers rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Parkinson, if you please. I am not here because you sent me an owl. Obviously, if you sent the owl five minutes ago I could not have received it. I am here to—"

"Then you don't know about the inheritance!"

"The what?" Severus's voice was flat and tired. Hermione could feel the annoyance radiating off him. If it wasn't for the fact that the office was clearly lacking any other employee they could speak to, she would've asked to deal with somebody else.

"The Prince estate."

"The Prince family disowned my mother decades ago."

"Signed you back in nine months ago, didn't they?"

"This has nothing to do with anything," Severus said sharply. Parkinson, still standing a bit too straight, fidgeted. "Do I hand these to you and you file them, or is there something I need to sign?"

"Birth certificates?"

"And our marriage license," Hermione put in, squeezing Severus's hand. He squeezed back.

Parkinson gaped at them.

"But. You've used a Time Turner."

"Correct."

"A Ministry-issued device?"

"No."

"It was a modified model. Dumbledore—" Hermione began, but Parkinson cut her off.

"But all the Time Turners were destroyed ages ago," Parkinson said, speaking to her. Probably because he hadn't been conditioned to go silent when she glared at him, as he had with Severus's best sharp looks.

"It was Dumbledore's. He tinkered with it," she said shortly. Parkinson blinked, glancing at Severus out of the corner of his eye and blushing crimson. Hermione rolled her eyes. Severus glowered.

Parkinson flipped through the folio they'd handed him, wandering back towards his desk and spreading things out. "It's all in order, sir," he said, glancing up at them. "It will take some time for all your, er, _aliases_ to sort themselves out, ma'am. Er, Madam Snape. I'll file them this morning."

"Thank you," Severus said, words so short and clipped she wasn't certain he was being sarcastic or merely forcing himself to be polite.

They turned to go, escape before the Ministry filled up with even more people or, worse, the press.

"But the Prince estate! Sir, I need you to sign—"

"I don't want anything from them. I've had nothing to do with them, and they've had nothing to do with me."

_Likely they thought to claim the Dark Lord's new favorite and earn some favor themselves_, Severus thought bitterly. She squeezed his hand again.

"Yes, sir. I mean, _no_, sir. I mean, they're all dead sir!"

"What?"

"My condolences."

"_Who's all dead, you great dunderheaded—_?" Severus hissed.

"The Princes."

"All of them?" Severus asked, both eyebrows flicking to his hairline.

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"Two months ago, sir. Agatha Prince, your great-aunt. I'm sorry, sir. She died. Natural causes, St. Mungo's said. She was almost two-hundred, after all." Parkinson grinned timidly. "She was the one who, well, _un_-disinherited your mother in order to name you beneficiary upon her death. Since there were no other Princes. Well. Technically, there was that Squib cousin, but he'd been disinherited before your mum ever was, and he had a coronary a week before she went anyway."

"Are you telling me that I've inherited the Prince famliy's dubious 'fortune'?"

"Nothing dubious about it, sir." Parkinson shifted, glancing at her again. "And yes, sir. You've inherited it."

"Parkinson, the Princes squandered their money generations ago."

"Yes, sir. But Agatha had been liquidating her properties for years. She kept inheriting as the others died off—er. Sorry. As the rest of the family passed on, Agatha Prince sold most of the posessions and land that came to her."

"Brilliant," Severus said, scowling. Parkinson, who had looked hopeful for the length of a twitch, began to fidget again.

"Hand that scroll over here," Hermione said, holding her hand out for Parkinson's summary of the estate. He hesitated for just long enough that she Summoned it with a snap.

"That was hardly—!"

"Shut it," Severus said, looking down the list over her shoulder.

It had been meticulously itemized by some obsessive-compulsive clerk. (She doubted it had been Parkinson.) It had been alphabetized by category and by item. There was everything on the list from a tea kettle that whistled songs by request when the water was hot, to what looked, on paper, to be a chateau. The sum total of the gold (just the gold, not the other valuables in storage) in the Prince vault at Gringotts was enormous.

"I don't want it," Severus said, shoulders tense.

_Don't be absurd. We need it._

"We most definitely do not!"

"You and I are about to accrue an alarmingly large fine, in the very best circumstance. And legal costs on top of that. We're going to need lawyers; we don't have Dumbledore to speak for us."

"We have his portrait."

"Portraits can be called for supplemental testimony, nothing more."

"It will supplement our statements."

"Yes, and confirm that I was, indeed, acting as his assassin for years? The portrait can't speak to more than that. It can, if we're very lucky, and we phrase it just right, shed light on his motivations, our motivations."

"This is the Wizengamot. The witches and wizard on the Wizengamot knew Dumbledore. They knew what it was like to be in a room with him."

"Yes, and they've just gone through a year without him because _you_ killed him."

"Because _he_ told me to."

"Which they will believe."

_You don't think they'll believe he told you to kill anybody._

_I didn't believe it the first time he asked me._

"He was dying. Desperate."

"And the portrait can try to explain that. But we'll still need proper representation."

"Shacklebolt—"

"Will do it right."

Severus sighed, and looked at the list again. "So you're saying…"

"Sign it."

"The taxes alone…"

_I can't be sentenced to Azkaban, Severus._

"You won't go to Azkaban."

"Of course I won't. I can't be sentenced to it, either, though. I won't force the children into hiding because Mummy Dear is a fugitive and won't give herself up because she's selfish and—"

"You're not selfish."

"Of course I am."

Parkinson cleared his throat, and they both glared at him. He blushed again and fidgeted with his paperwork.

\\\

They went to Edinburgh, the folio of Severus's new holdings shoved into an inside pocket of his frock coat. Neither of them knew what to say about it, so they didn't.

"Mum!"

It was all she could do not to cry when she opened the door to the flat and Ellie flung herself into her arms. The others weren't far behind, mobbing her and Severus. There were tears, mostly her own. They ended up on the couch, the five of them all piled together.

Hermione had never been so exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally—in her life.

Every few minutes, some new thought would pass through her head. Something else she had to do. Something else she'd been lucky to escape. The relief was beginning to settle in—they'd survived, their kids were okay, they were okay. And Minerva and Hagrid were fine. And Poppy was in full form. The Weasleys were okay. Ron and Harry were okay. She was okay.

"Is the fighting done?" Ellie asked, looking up at them with narrowed, assessing eyes.

"For us it is," Severus said, drawing her close again and stroking her hair, soothing.

"Are you sure?" Sofia asked.

"I hope so."

\\\

Eventually, some alert from the wards called Severus back to Hogwarts. (She was thankful she couldn't hear the wards off the grounds, but she knew better than to mention it.) Hermione packed up what was left at the flat and then took the children shopping.

Severus had gone out and bought a few necessities for them, but, unless they planned to make a quick trip to Australia (and she really didn't feel like tackling the legal issues waiting for them there at the moment), the children needed more than a few things if they were going to feel at home, and better to do it before the press realized they existed.

It was approaching dinnertime when they finished. Each child had a sturdy bag full of things they could call their own—from underwear to crayons—and they followed her into the alley around the corner from the last shop with satisfied looks on their faces.

She Apparated them to the gates of Hogwarts. It might've been easier to bring them straight to Severus's rooms and stow their things away, but they'd never seen the outside of the castle. While it was hardly at its best at the moment, all the bodies had been cleared away.

"Woah," Bast said, grinning up at the castle. They had a perfect view of the gentle slope up from the gate. There were trees down and great scores of overturned dirt, but it was still a magnificent place. Turrets and towers, the Quidditch goals just in sight above the line of the stands (which were still smoking a bit), the dark trees of the forest already casting evening shadows. It smelled like fresh-turned dirt and fire, but they weren't rancid smells any longer, just outdoors smells.

"So Hogwarts is safe now?" Bast asked.

"Yes," Hermione said, taking his bag and kissing the top of his head. She repeated the motion with the girls, Shrinking all three bags down and putting them in her satchel. "There are still things to be careful of, but it's safe."

"Careful of things like that, huh?" Bast asked, pointing to the warped remains of the main gate. The metal was bent and brutalized, and somebody had moved it off to one side of the perimeter wall.

"Exactly." She cleared her throat then, and crouched down so she was more on their level. "I want to tell you one thing before we go in." They looked at her, nervous. The girls had habitually arranged themselves on either side of Bast, and they grabbed his hands now. It was adorable, and it hurt her heart. She cleared her throat. "You know Daddy was pretending to be a bad guy this year—"

"He was a spy!" Bast said in an excited whisper. The notion was very romantic to a six-year-old.

"Yes," Hermione said. "But that means that he had to keep lots of secrets. Most people don't know that we're married to each other. And some of the people who know that secret don't know about you three."

"We're a surprise," Sofia said, grinning. Elaine echoed the grin, and Hermione caught herself smirking back at them. It was lucky they liked the idea of being a surprise, because it could very easily be an uncomfortable experience if they didn't start in on it with the idea to enjoy it.

"A lot of people are going to be very surprised," she said.

"Do you think some of them are going to be mean, Mum?" Ellie asked, seeing the underlying problem like she always did.

"I'm worried they might be. If anybody is mean to you, or if anybody asks you questions that you don't like, just tell me or your dad. You don't have to answer any questions at all—we'll answer all of them, and if they don't like our answers—"

"They can get stuffed!" Bast said excitedly, and she fixed him with her best Mum Look.

"That's not polite to say, Bast." He looked down at his feet. "But yes. They can." He grinned cheekily up at her.

"Let's get on, then." She looked them over once, settling Basts's jumper over his shoulders more evenly and fussing with the girls' hair a bit before she realized she was stalling, not wanting to share her children with the world, and stood up again.

"Hol' on there!" Hagrid called, jogging out of the dark. He had his pink umbrella tucked under his arm. "Nobody's allowed ter enter the school righ' now. Not unless yer here on—oh, 'ello 'ermione. I din' recognize ye."

"Hello Hagrid." She grinned. "Are they serving dinner in the Great Hall, do you know?"

"Yep. They got the, er—they cleaned it out real nice this afternoon. Everybody's up there righ' now."

"Will you come up with us?"

"Got ter watch the gate."

"What if we blocked it off? Official people are mostly going to arrive by Floo, right?"

"'S'not the official people I'm watchin' fer."

Hermione smiled and charmed the two mangled halves of the gate to patrol. They looked a bit mean, actually, moving themselves around using their four corners (which were in no way evenly spaced after all they'd been through). She conjured glowing letters outside the wall to tell people the school was closed to guests until morning, and then she nodded to Hagrid.

"Please come up to dinner with us?"

"Be glad to," he said, grinning back at her.

They fell into step, walking slowly so the girls wouldn't have trouble keeping up, and Hagrid asked, "So who've ye got with yer, then?"

"Sebastian, Sofia and Elaine," Hermione said, pointing to each of them in turn. The girls had grabbed her hands while Bast ran on ahead to look at exposed roots and charred grass and things. He chose that moment to find a worm and picked it up, headed for Sofia, who squealed.

"Bast, stop it!" Sofia said, releasing her grip on Hermione's hand to run around the other side of Hagrid to hide from the worm.

"What? It's just a worm," Bast said, waggling the worm at her. "Are you scared of a worm?"

"It's _gross_."

"Bast, put the poor thing back where you found it," Hermione said, and, reluctantly, Bast did. She rolled her eyes. "I'm afraid I can't claim that they're usually better mannered than that."

Bast grinned cheekily, walking backwards in front of them. Sofia, head held up like a queen, returned to Hermione's side. She stuck her tongue out at her brother after she had a hold of Hermione's hand again.

"Seem pretty good ter me."

"Yes, I'm rather fond of them." Ellie giggled. "Children, this is Rubeus Hagrid. He teaches Care of Magical Creatures."

"Rubeus like me?" Bast asked.

"Exactly like you."

"Cool!" Bast stopped right in front of Hagrid and held out his hand to shake. "Hallo, Mr. Hagrid. My name is Sebastian Rubeus Snape!"

"Sebastian R— _Snape_!" Hagrid laughed. "Well then ye'd better give me a hug, eh lad?" He bypassed Bast's hand to scoop him up into a hug. Bast looked startled, but Hagrid put him down and drew Hermione into a bone-crushing hug before the boy could decide if he was going to be upset or not. "I dunno what ter be surprised abou' first!" Hagrid said, pulling out a disgusting hanky to wipe at the tears on his face. "Tha' i's you and the perfessor, tha' you got kids at all, or that' ye named 'im after _me_!"

He blew his nose noisily, and Hermione patted his big arm.

"When did you even have _time_—how did...?"

"Dumbledore gave me a Time Turner. This wasn't what he intended me to use it for, but..." She shrugged, smiling over at her children. The girls had assembled on either side of Bast again, the worm incident forgotten. "I think it was worth it."

Hagrid laughed and hugged her again. The laugh turned into the infectious belly-laugh sort, and he had to put her down to mop at his face again.

"He tole us he was marrit with kids yesterday, I jus' thought 'e was jokin'!"

Hagrid chuckled all the way up to the school. Not even the doors to the entrance hall hanging loose in their frames damaged his mood. Instead, he held open the side that had been banging in the breeze and grinned hugely as they walked through.

"Sebastian Rubeus," he said under his breath as Hermione passed, and she squeezed his arm.

The entrance hall was mercifully empty. There was rubble here and there, and the main staircase looked iffy enough that she decided they'd use a different one when it was time to go up to Severus's rooms.

"Oh," she said when they came to the doors to the Great Hall. The doors stood open, all the floating candles lit. The room was entirely undamaged. The ceiling showed a spectacular sunset. The most amazing part was that it was full of people, though. Happy people. The House tables weren't full by any means, but they were approaching half capacity. The air was full of happy chatter.

Teachers, students, villagers from Hogsmeade, Aurors and a handful of Healers from St. Mungo's filled the tables. Severus, paler than he should be but looking remarkably well overall, sat at the near end of what was usually the Hufflepuff table. Minerva was directly across from him, Flitwick and Hooch on Minerva's right. There was a noticeable (though not quite sizeable) gap between the pod of teachers and the rest of the people at the table. Hermione noted a few Aurors down the table who seemed to be keeping an eye on Severus, which still annoyed her even if it didn't surprise her.

"I see Daddy," Ellie said, squeezing Hermione's hand a little tighter.

"Can I go over there?" Bast asked.

"Go on ahead."

Bast darted off, expertly dodging around a spacy Luna Lovegood making her way to what was once the Gryffindor table. Luna didn't notice him, but most of the people at the nearby tables did. By the time Hermione and the girls were coming up on Severus and the rest, most of the hall had gone to whispers. Hagrid, still grinning from ear to ear, sat down on the bench to Severus's left, patting him on the back so enthusiastically that Severus's face almost ended up in his plate.

"Sebastian Rubeus," she heard him say again while he began loading up a plate.

Hermione put her hand on Severus's shoulder as she stepped over the bench to sit down next to him. Ellie crawled up between them, smiling at the faces around them shyly. Sofia disappeared for a moment and reappeared on the other side of the table, beaming at Minerva.

"Don't crawl under tables, Sofia," Severus said, though without any real admonishment. "It's where people put their feet."

She stuck out her tongue, and he raised an eyebrow at her, and she smiled at him, and he smirked back.

Hermione almost cried. It was halfway to a normal dinner at their haven in Australia, Severus flirting with the children. Bast had Hagrid on cloud nine, telling him all about himself and how he could even _spell _Rubeus, and how Severus called him "Rube" for a week once just to annoy him. Sofia, somehow, had learned that Minerva was an Animagus, and hounded her with question after question about turning into a cat (with the obvious intent to nick a wand and give it a try as soon as the opportunity presented itself).

They chatted and smiled, enjoying Hooch's reaction to the children best of all, until Ellie fell asleep in her pudding.

"Okay, that's the cue," Severus said, scooping Elaine up off the bench and putting her head on the shoulder without the bandage. As usual, Hermione's heart melted a little to see him with one of their children like that.

"Aw, come on, Dad. _I'm_ not tired," Bast said, but he shoveled the last of his pudding into his mouth and chewed quickly anyway.

"Walk around the table this time, Sofia," Hermione admonished, catching the little girl about to duck down. Minerva helped, snagging Sofia around her waist and setting her on her feet behind the bench. The girl sulkily walked down the table and around.

"Nine o'clock tomorrow, Severus?" Minerva asked, finishing off her own pudding. She was smirking, obviously quite tickled at the picture of their little family. Hermione was still riding the wave of relief that had begun when she walked into the Hall, so she didn't mind.

"Yes. The Board will be here at half past for their tour." He sounded annoyed, resigned. Hermione smirked.

"Bye, Mr. Hagrid!"

"G'nite, Bast." Hagrid was tearing up a little bit again, but he was smiling.

"Oh, I'm not going to _sleep_," Bast promised, raising his eyebrows. Hermione smirked at him.

"Want to bet?" she asked.

By the time the reached the doors to the Great Hall, Bast had taken Severus's free hand and allowed himself to be led sleepily out. Hermione had picked Sofia up and followed, and she tried not to notice that everybody in the room was staring after them as they went.

Upstairs, the process of pajamas and brushing teeth was surprisingly argument-free. Before long, the three of them were comfortably snuggled in the huge bed, and Hermione and Severus were alone in the sitting room. They'd put pajamas on, too, and sat together on the sofa watching the fire.

"Do we even bother transfiguring it?" she asked, leaning back and letting her head loll over as she looked at him. He looked as tired as she felt and then probably a bit more.

"It's got to be a bit wider, at least," he said, pulling his legs up before flicking his wand at it. The sofa instantly jumped into a slightly more bed-like shape, and a few more jabs of his wand added proper pillows at one end.

She smiled when he crawled over to her, pulling her to his chest and sinking down onto the sofa-cum-bed. She threw a leg over his thighs and wrapped her arms low across his waist as he held her head to his chest, his arms solid around her. He had a hand suspiciously close to her ass, but she thought that was more from habit than anything else—they were both too tired for any proper hanky-panky.

\\\

She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept that well. It had probably been in Australia.

Hermione woke at dawn, overly hot and still held tight to Severus's chest. The smell of him was everywhere, warm clean man. She was mostly on top of him, using him as both pillow and mattress; he didn't seem to mind.

"Good morning," she said, burrowing into his side more snugly and looking up at his face.

He shifted, putting his hand under her chin and tipping her face up so that he could kiss her. She smiled and let him kiss her, opened her mouth and slid her tongue along his.

"I missed you," he said, pressing his forehead to hers and just breathing for a moment. "I missed you so much, Hermione."

"I love you," she said, squeezing her eyes closed and wrapping her arms around him.

He was shaking, trembling in her arms.

"It's over," he whispered. "It's over, it's over."

* * *

**A/N: So I need to write a better summary for this story, and your input would be more than helpful. Feel free to send any ideas via PM if you don't want to put it in a review.**

**And have I mentioned lately that you guys are awesome? Because you are. It really does make my day when I open up my email and it's full of notifications that people are responding to what I've written. This story takes up about 90 percent of my "me time," and I don't actually know anybody who is as into Harry Potter and fanfiction, so your feedback is the only affirmation I get that I'm not a weirdo dedicating way too much time and thought to a story about a story.**

**Anyway. I hope you liked this chapter—I've dubbed it "the beginning of the end" in my head. So. We're getting close to over now, and I'm really trying not to let it be one long checklist as I tie off the various loose ends and such. There will be an epilogue for that, which means we get to have a few twists and turns in the "falling action" here, right?**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	49. Chapter Forty-Eight

There was too much to do to lie in bed all morning. Severus wanted to grumble and swear and roll over until the children woke up, but Hermione wouldn't let him. She was up, tiptoeing into the bedroom for fresh clothes and a shower, then down to the office sorting through papers. Groaning, Severus followed her example.

When he finished in the shower, he found her sitting in the guest chair at his desk, her papers arranged across the desk.

"You could have just sat in the usual chair," he said, sitting in the second guest chair so that he could be closer to her.

"I did," she said, returning his good morning kiss and smiling. "It felt wrong."

He chuckled, and picked up one of the parchments she'd set aside. It was paperwork with the Ministry seal at the top of it.

"What are you up to?"

"Sorting out your inheritance," she said, gesturing to the papers strewn across the desk.

"Of all things to walk into, that wasn't something I'd even thought of."

"You were expecting trouble?"

"I expected to have to argue about time travel, at the very least."

"As far as I understand, it isn't unusual for Unspeakables to use Time Turners fairly regularly. Or at least it wasn't unusual before all their devices were destroyed. Accidentally."

He smirked, glancing up at her while he flipped through the pages of a detailed log from Gringotts.

"There's another hurdle, if you're looking for them."

"And what is that?"

"Gringotts."

"Have the goblins declared themselves with the Death Eaters, then?"

"No." She rolled her eyes at him, which made him smirk again. "I broke into their bank, though. And I destroyed property within a vault."

"Well we can easily pay for damages, now."

"They're goblins. They don't care about the money; they have money. They care about the principle of the thing, and they care about the history of the things they keep safe."

"You destroyed a Horcrux."

"And most of the contents of the Lestrange vault." He raised an eyebrow at her. "I was feeling a bit vindictive."

He nodded and looked away. He definitely understood feeling vindictive toward the Lestranges. He'd taken his anger out on their hides, though.

"The goblins can't legally do anything to you unless you damaged their building or stole from them. Did you knock out a wall? Steal one of their dragons?"

"Thought about it."

He laughed and kissed her.

"We could leave the country," he suggested. "Of course, Gringotts isn't solely a British establishment…"

"And we just waged a war to put this country to rights. That's a lot of work to go through only to leave."

"It's easy to sound righteous like that when you don't have to sit through a meeting with the Board of Governors later. Possibly twice."

"Twice?"

"They'll insist we have a chat about recent events before they tour the school, then we'll walk around and they'll be 'astonished at the extent of it all,' and then we'll probably sit down again so they can apologize for underestimating the damage."

Hermione just laughed.

\\\

"I don't understand," Ezra Pierce, the governor who seemed to have taken it upon himself to act as spokesperson for the rest of the group, said. "Nobody is asking for you to step down, Headmaster Snape."

Severus wondered if they'd ask him to step down if he started hexing them.

"I know that, Mr. Pierce. I am resigning because it has been an awful year, and Hogwarts needs to rebuild. To do that, it needs me out of it. The students, even once they've been fully informed of what was actually happening, are still children. They need a headmaster they _know_ they can trust, not one that they've just been told they can trust after watching him let the Carrows do as they would this past year."

"We'll have an official inquiry over the summer. We'll clear everything up."

"No, Mr. Pierce. Have your inquiry, clear everything up, but don't expect me to return." He stared at the man patiently, making lists of all the things he could be better spending his time on in the back of his head. "My resignation isn't contingent upon your approval. It is a formality, my alerting you to my intent so that you can find a suitable replacement. I've even suggested a candidate."

"But, Headmaster, I don't—"

"Please, Mr. Pierce," Severus said, standing up. He'd already had the meeting with the governors and Heads of House to discuss the plans for the repairs, and he'd had a walking tour of the school with the governors and the ghosts, and he'd had another meeting with Minerva and the governors. Minerva had departed for lunch and he'd stayed to speak with the governors a bit more. The polite thing to do would be to order up lunch for them in his office, but he was hoping they'd get the hint and leave him be. "I am not only resigning, I have already resigned. I have tendered my resignation, and alerted the staff to that fact. I have made plans with Minerva to officially hand over the wards. I have begun packing."

That last wasn't true, of course. He'd barely had time to breathe, let alone begin to pack.

"Very well." It was said reluctantly and only after the three representative governors had exchanged contemplative looks. Severus couldn't fathom why they so desperately wanted to keep him on, but he also didn't much care. He just wanted it to be over, to step down, to go back to bed.

* * *

That evening, the official letters came from the Ministry. They'd been summoned to a debriefing. Courtroom B, one of the larger chambers. And from the chatter around the Great Hall, most of those involved in the fight at Hogwarts had been called, as had all but a few members of the Order of the Phoenix.

"There will be Veritaserum involved," Hermione said, reading the letter over again. They'd each received their own, but they said the same thing. "And possibly a Pensieve to review extracted memories."

"It's just shy of a trial," Severus sighed. They'd both expected it, and it really was the best option. After the first fall of Voldemort, there hadn't been debriefings, just trials, and Sirius Black had ended up in Azkaban while nobody knew Peter Pettigrew had been the Secret Keeper.

"We're ready, Dad!" Sofia cried from the bedroom, and Severus took her copy of the letter from her as he stood up. She'd been having a soak in the bath and thinking about how she'd tell her story, and he'd come in to say hello while the kids put their pajamas on.

Hermione got out of the tub, charming her skin dry but using a towel on her hair to prevent frizz. Flannel pajama pants would be warm for the season, but it was a big stone castle and tended toward coolness. She had just pulled her camisole top on and was taking another swipe at her hair with the towel with she realized she was Occluding, and dropped her shields.

She passed through the bedroom, kissing the four of them sprawled on the big bed reading stories, and made her way to the sitting room. She was fine until she heard Severus singing a lullaby in the other room. Everything rushed up at her at once. The terror, the peril. He'd been bitten by a venomous snake and almost died, for Merlin's sake. Her husband. The man she loved more than she'd imagined it was possible to love anybody. He'd almost died. She'd almost died, too.

Hermione sat on the sofa and put her head between her knees, gasping for air. She was sure she was going to throw up. She could hear the explosion of spells hitting the castle, smell the sulfur of miss-castings. For a moment, she could've sworn she was choked by the dust of the battle.

And then Severus's humming penetrated, and relief washed over her. It was almost worse than the panic.

She had to move. She had to go.

Silently, Hermione made for the stairs leading down to the headmaster's office. She just needed a moment. She didn't want him to see her like this, to worry. He had too much to think about and do; he didn't need to be concerned for her and her stupid moment of weakness.

She sat on the bottom step, put her face in her hands, and lowered her hands and face to the tops of her knees. She'd just have a good cry in the privacy of the office, let the panic and relief pass out of her in the waves it seemed to be favoring, then go back up and hold onto Severus for awhile. They'd talk about it.

"Come here, my dear."

Hermione cried harder, unable to resist leaning into Minerva when she sat down on the steps next to her and put a hand on her back. For a moment, she was a twelve-year-old without any friends and her Head of House was comforting her after another lonely supper.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Hermione said, trying to sit up and pull herself together, but Minerva pulled her into a tight hug and Hermione cried all the harder.

"Don't apologize," Minerva instructed, rocking them soothingly and stroking a maternal hand up and down her back. Hermione wondered if she'd be able to feel the texture of her scars through the thin fabric of the camisole, but dismissed the thought as irrelevant. "You're alright, Hermione. You're alright."

Finally, Hermione took a deep breath and pulled back. "I know. Thank you, Minerva." She wiped the tears off her cheeks, forcing herself not to Occlude again out of habit; she didn't need to do that anymore. "It's ridiculous, really—"

"It's _not_ ridiculous," Minerva said, almost scolding. "You've been through hell; you're allowed to cry about it!"

"I wasn't—that's not…" Hermione wiped away a few more tears. She felt like she needed to explain, more because she wanted to talk about it, to talk things through before she talked to Severus about all of it. They hadn't talked about the war yet, not really. They'd shared their experiences through Legilimency, mostly accidentally, but they hadn't discussed it. Hadn't discussed moving forward. "I'm—relieved."

"Of course you are," Minerva said, clearly not understanding the depth of Hermione's relief.

"Minerva…" Hermione started, then shifted her hips so her knees were pressed into Minerva's, so it was easier to look her straight in the eye. "Do you know why Severus asked me to marry him?"

"I assume because he loves you," Minerva replied immediately, smirking. One side of Hermione's mouth quirked into a smile, but she shook her head.

"That was always a given, but no, that's not why he asked me to marry him." She sighed again. "He wanted me to have widow's benefits."

Minerva sat up a little bit straighter, eyebrows raised high.

"He'd resigned himself to dying in this war a long time before we were ever together. It's actually—we tried not to fall in love, you know. We _tried_ to play the parts we had to play as we were supposed to play them. The spy and the assassin." She rolled her eyes at the melodrama of it all. "Either of us could have died so easily at any point, especially him. He wanted me to have a piece of paper to show the Ministry at the end of it. He wanted to leave me his Hogwarts pension and the rights to the royalties from his patents, the land at Spinner's End, the contents of his vault at Gringotts." Her voice broke. "He wanted to provide for me even after he died. He wanted—"

She was relieved and shaky and happy and mourning all at once.

"But we made it anyway, Minerva," she said; she was crying again and she wiped at the tears. "My husband is upstairs s-singing our children to sleep. He had his throat ripped out by a snake, but he made it. And I'm alive, and the k-kids are fine, and we _won_, and there's no more spying or assassinating or…

"I'm relieved." She sighed, scrubbing at her face again. She wanted to be annoyed with herself for all the crying, but she was too wrung-out for it.

"I'm relieved, too," Minerva said, drawing her into another hug. It was awhile before either of them spoke again, and Hermione wasn't sure what prompted the story when she began talking.

"When I found out I was pregnant with Bast, I panicked. I couldn't do it, bring a child into the world at the time and in that place," she said, leaning back against the railing now so that they could look at each other properly again. Minerva was soaking in the words with rapt attention. "I cried for almost an hour in the bathroom at the safe house I had Harry and Ron hidden away in—and I was doing a lot of crying from hormones, anyway. I locked the boys down once I got myself under control and Apparated in.

"Severus didn't panic, though; he was _happy_. We made a plan, and we went so far back we broke the Time Turner, and then we went to Australia. It was… an oasis. It was wonderful: This little pocket of time when we could pretend we were living normal lives…

"Each day was a day closer to when we'd have to come back, though, and we hated it. We had the twins because we wanted them so badly, wanted to keep pretending, wanted to be done and in denial about reality for as long as we could be.

"And then we had to come back. Truly running away had never been an option, of course, but—it was even worse after having that time away. We were both just as sure that we'd be dead by the end of it, only now we knew what we were missing. We'd met our children and we knew how happy we could be living out normal lives in happy obscurity.

"And what would happen if one or both of us died? My parents were getting the _Prophet_ in Australia. They'd read about it in the paper, is what would have happened. Either Headmaster Snape or Undesirable Number Two splattered across the front page in gory detail, just waiting on the front step for—" She broke off to wipe away more tears, and shoved those thoughts away. They'd made it; her father had never gone to get the paper only to read about his only daughter's demise. "So I'm relieved, because this could all have been so much worse. A few scars and the penchant to cry at the drop of a hat. I can live with that."

"I'm very glad you both made it through," Minerva said after a long moment. Hermione met her eyes and was careful not to sink into her mind; that wouldn't be polite. "You're—well, the two of you had the most difficult hands to play, I think."

"Don't discount your own part," Hermione said. Minerva's best friend, mentor, colleague of decades had been killed by a man she'd known since he was eleven and thought a friend. She'd had to stay at the school and try to protect the children from monsters who were very real.

Minerva opened her mouth to reply, but the door above jerked open silently but suddenly. The pair of them were on their feet in an instant, wands drawn. But it was only Severus, his own wand in his hand, eyes wide and panicked until he spotted them. He put his wand away and they followed suit.

"What is it?" Minerva asked, glancing back at the delicate-looking instruments on the little tables throughout the room; none of them were acting up. The castle was more-or-less at peace. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no; everything's fine," Severus said, running a hand through his hair. Hermione noted with some amusement that he was dressed for bed, too. Flannel pajama bottoms and a loose gray t-shirt. He looked very much like the Severus she'd shared a home with in Australia; it took some of the teary relief and turned it into burning hope.

_You were gone_, he said, thought, to her. _I could tell you were distressed, but I couldn't find you_.


	50. Chapter Forty-Nine

Three days after the Battle of Hogwarts, Severus was officially no longer the headmaster. He was surprisingly relieved. He'd expected to miss the feel of the wards, that tingle across his skin when he passed through the front gate.

He'd felt strangely adrift for half an hour following his official hand-over to Minerva. It was the first time in decades that he hadn't had some sort of connection—as a teacher, as a Head of House, as the headmaster—to the castle.

_I'm free._

The thought filled him up, buoyed him.

"I won't even be thinking of moving my chambers until the castle has been fixed up a bit," Minerva said, distracting him from his thoughts. He couldn't even feel guilty about how happy it made him to take the weight of the castle off his shoulders. "Will you stay for awhile? You know we could use the help."

Severus frowned thoughtfully. He and Hermione had had a long conversation the night before about what they'd do in the next weeks. There were things to do—the debriefing, for instance—and things they'd talked about before the war. A proper house for the children with a potions lab and lots of book shelves—and not in Australia this time.

The house didn't have to happen immediately, though. They could stay—there was plenty of space, after all. They could help out while they took care of things with the Ministry. They could take their time finding just the right place to live, and sorting out that damned nuisance of an inheritance. The children could have all of the castle and grounds to keep them occupied, and the dutiful house elves would keep "the babies" out of harm while giving them the illusion of the run of the castle.

"I'll think about it," he said. He didn't want to promise her anything; he didn't know what he wanted yet, let alone what Hermione wanted. "I'll talk to Hermione."

Minerva smiled at him, that fond, knowing smile that had become so obnoxious of late. It was a smile that said, "It's adorable that you're so domesticated," and it annoyed the hell out of him.

"If there's nothing else, Minerva, I think I'll go for a walk before I turn in." He had half a mind to stop by Hagrid's hut and see how the repairs were going. A giant had keeled over dead not far from the hut and its club had taken out one corner of the roof and the exterior wall opposite the door.

"Good-night, Severus."

"Good-night."

The grounds were quiet. It was a lovely spring night, almost summer. The grass was green, the path pavers were rough underfoot. In the twilight, it was easy to imagine that nothing bad could ever happen. The great gouges in the earth sporadically spaced throughout the grounds just looked like shadows in the half-light. He was walking away from the castle with its obvious chunks missing, and he was too far from the collapsed sections of the surrounding wall to see that damage.

A loud sniff interrupted his musing. His wand was in his hand in an instant, blood racing through his veins. There was no further noise, though. No attacker with a head cold leaping from behind a tree, no sign of life at all.

"_Hominum revelio_," he muttered. One light danced in front of him, faint but growing stronger. Whatever had made the noise was coming closer, slowly but surely.

Severus Disillusioned himself and crouched next to the stoop of Hagrid's hut, watchful. After a long minute, the sound came again, closer but also quieter. Then he could hear large feet shushing through the long grass that was the path into the Forbidden Forest.

"Hagrid?" Severus called, removing the charm and holding his illuminated wand aloft. The blue-white wand light was harsh in the fading twilight.

"Oh. 'Ello, there, Perfesser Snape."

"You could call me Severus, you know."

Hagrid didn't respond, just sniffed wetly again. He was carrying something large and limp out of the forest.

"I'm officially no longer a professor of Hogwarts, anyway."

"Ye'll always be a perfesser in my min', Per—er. Snape. Sev'rus."

Severus smiled, but then Hagrid stepped full into the light and Severus could see that he'd been crying hard enough recently that his eyes were rimmed red. "What's happened? What have you got there?"

"It's Fang," Hagrid said, looking down at the heavy form of his dog in his arms. "I jus' found 'im in the Forest."

"Is he hurt? I'll get Hermione. I don't know if she's worked with animals much, but—"

"He's dead."

"Oh, Hagrid."

The half-giant's shoulders were shaking again, and fresh tears glistened on his face.

"I should—I was gonna—" Hagrid paused to take a long, deep breath and sniff again. "I'll bury 'im by the pumpkin patch. Righ' by the gate where 'e liked ter lie in the sun."

"That will be perfect, Hagrid," Severus said, at a loss. Hagrid had had that dog for years, since just after Severus had begun teaching. It hadn't been a young dog, but it had had a bit of magic in it, like all familiars. There should have been years before that dog had died. "He was a good, loyal dog."

"'e was!" Hagrid wailed, holding the dog's body closer. He'd come close enough now that Severus could smell it; poor Fang had certainly died the night of the Battle. "'e was a _good _dog."

"Here, Hagrid. Come on," Severus said gently, reaching up to put hand on the other man's shaking shoulder. They made their way around the hut, Severus patting and murmuring soothing nothings while Hagrid blubbered a bit.

Hagrid set the dog down by a bit of rock that had once been part of the hut's chimney stack, then pulled out a large ugly handkerchief and honked his nose, wiped his eyes.

"Righ'," Hagrid said, mostly to himself. "Righ'."

Hagrid took off his long coat, then rolled up his sleeves. He headed for the shed a few paces away and came out with the shovel. He walked around the yard area between the hut and the pumpkin patch, looked out at the treeline, then stuck the shovel in the ground. It was slow going. Hagrid stopped every other shovel-full to wipe his nose or his eyes.

"May I help, Hagrid?" Severus asked.

"I don' wan ter use magic," Hagrid said without looking up.

"That's fine," Severus said. He undid the clasps across the front of his teaching robes and hung them over the top rung of the fence around the pumpkin patch, then unbuttoned his frock coat and laid it over the teaching robes. "May I help?"

Hagrid nodded as Severus rolled up his own sleeves. He switched his wand to his pocket and put the sheath with his robes so that it wouldn't chafe (it wasn't meant to be worn during repetitive movement like shoveling). He conjured himself a shovel since there wasn't another in the shed, and then he stepped up next to Hagrid and set to work. It was almost soothing to have something physical to do; it was a long time since he'd done something the Muggle way. It had probably been when he'd put in the gardens at the house in Australia, actually; magical plants faired better in hand-turned soil.

It didn't take much time with the two of them. When they'd finished the hole, Hagrid gently lowered the dog's body down, and then the two of them shoveled the dirt back in. When they were done, there was a small mound of darker soil next to the gate of the pumpkin patch. Severus Summoned a loose paver from the path and used his wand to carve FANG into it, settling the paver at the head of the grave. Hagrid nodded at him again, burying his face in his saturated handkerchief.

Severus stood with him for awhile, not saying anything. Hagrid cried himself out and mopped himself up.

"'e was a good dog. A very good dog." There was a long pause; Severus looked up to see his lip trembling dangerously. "Like ye said. 'e was good an' 'e was loyal. 'e weren't very brave, but 'e stayed with me that nigh' anyway. I think 'e came after me when the acrermantulas took me inter the Forest. I think 'e died tryin' to—tryin' to find me—" Hagrid broke off in tears again, and Severus put his hand back on his shoulder. There was nothing to say.

After another span of time, Hagrid mopped his face one last time and nodded, standing up to his full, impressive, height and looking down at the grave.

"Good boy, Fang."

Severus had a sad smile on his face as he watched Hagrid turn away and walk over to the gate where his coat was. He made slow work of rolling his sleeves back down into place and buttoning the cuffs. Severus joined him at the gate, doing similarly.

They were quiet for a very long time. Severus buttoned his shirt sleeves, then his coat sleeves, then settled his robes on his shoulders. It had all been like putting on a costume, or a suit of armor—before. He'd inhabited the character of Professor Snape, the Bat of the Dungeons in unrelieved black with long black hair and dark, glaring eyes. Putting the coat and robes on had been a method of getting himself into the proper mindset, Death Eater Headmaster. Strange how it didn't feel like he was reassembling that persona in Hagrid's yard; he was just putting his robes on so that he didn't have to carry them back up to the castle.

"The Mark's gone," Hagrid observed, startling Severus out of his silent reverie.

"Yes." Severus turned his left arm out, rolling the sleeve back a bit so the pale, unblemished skin shone in the moonlight. They were days away from the full moon; he should brew Wolfsbane—but Lupin was dead, too, and didn't need the potion. Severus sighed. "Last time, it just faded. There was still a bit of gray just there." He trailed the line of it with his finger; he could still recall the position of it perfectly, recall the way it had felt when it was branded into him, when it had faded, when it had come back. He hadn't felt it at all when it truly disappeared; Hermione had noticed it before he had.

"So 'e won' be back now."

"No. He won't be back."


	51. Chapter Fifty

The Burrow was bustling with activity. Picnic tables had been set up in the yard again. Most of the Order would be at the house within the hour; Mrs. Weasley was in a worse state than she'd been before the wedding.

"Harry Potter you mash those potatoes with your hands!" she was saying when Hermione entered the kitchen. "No need to make a mess trying to do it with magic."

"He can't mash them with his _hands_, Mum," one of the twins said. "It'd be a mess!"

"George Weasley—" Mrs. Weasely began, but then she caught sight of Hermione in the doorway and she stopped. "Oh."

"Hi," Hermione said. The rest of the kitchen went quiet.

Harry and George were by the stove, Harry with his wand pointed at a huge pot of boiled potatoes. Ginny was at the table with the newspaper.

Kingsley disturbed what was sure to be an awkward moment (she hadn't seen any of them properly since the Battle of Hogwarts), walking into the kitchen from somewhere in the house quickly followed by Mr. Weasley.

"Oh, Hermione. Good," Kinglsey said. "You didn't happen to bring Snape with you?"

"He's at Gringotts." He had made the appointment before the gathering of the Order had been planned. Since they were already in hot water with the goblins, what with her breaking in and burning away bits of treasure inside a vault that didn't belong to her, they'd decided it would be best if he kept the appointment and she kept her distance. "I don't know how long he'll be."

"Gringotts?" Bill asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Apparently the last of the Princes died, but not before deciding that he'd redeemed himself as a member of the family. He inherited the estate, so he's meeting with the goblins about it," she said. Then she smirked at Bill. "And he's probably trying to convince them to let me into the building again."

"Good luck with that," Bill said, trying not to laugh. Mrs. Weasley scowled.

"I was hoping he could talk a bit about what went on this last year," Kingsley said pensively, destroying any cheerfulness that had entered the room with Bill's good humor. "We could use a clear explanation."

"I've already told you everything," Harry said sharply, jabbing his wand at the potatoes. They all mashed at once, squishing noisily in the pot. About half of it splattered, shooting for the ceiling, but George contained it with a grin. Mrs. Weasley smacked Harry on the arm with the wooden spoon she had in her hand, but he didn't seem to notice; he was trying to stare down the Acting Minister of Magic.

"It's important that we get the details from more than one person, Harry," Kingsley said patiently. "It's not that I don't believe you. It's just very important that we have the story straight before we bring it to the public."

"You want to share the whole of it?" Hermione asked, surprised. She and Harry shared a look.

"Probably not the whole of it," Kingsley said, sounding uncomfortable now.

"You want to keep the Horcruxes out of it?"

"I don't think the general population needs to hear that part, no. Just the Wizengamot."

"The Wizengamot that was so riddled with corruption it's now made up of four junior assistants, an honorary member in long-term care at St. Mungo's, and two decent blokes who had the good sense to leg it when it all went to pot last summer?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. "One of whom you can't find, last I heard. The other, rumor has it, refused to come back on account of it doesn't rain nearly so much in Bermuda."

Kingsley crossed his arms and glared at her. "How did you know any of that?"

Hermione just smiled. The truth was that Hogwarts had become a waypoint for just about anybody remotely involved in anything in the past week, not to mention the portraits were the worst gossips in the history of word-of-mouth.

"Er, hi," Ron said from the doorway behind Hermione. "Sorry to interrupt, but Snape's in the yard making everybody uncomfortable. Do you think you lot could come out now?"

Hermione turned and left the kitchen, patting Ron's shoulder on her way past.

"Ronald, that was _rude_," Mrs. Weasley hissed behind her, but nobody else reacted.

Severus was indeed making everybody uncomfortable, and he looked quite pleased with himself. He was standing off to one side of the gathered Order, grouped together in little conversational clumps, and watching the lot of them with an air of benevolent condescension. It reminded her of Dumbledore just as surely as it reminded everybody else.

_You'll have to work on the twinkle_, she observed. His eyes sort of glinted with humor at that, and she smiled back at him.

They arranged themselves around the picnic tables. It was strange. Hermione took her seat next to Kingsley, feeling a pang when it was Ron across from her instead of Tonks. Harry was in Moody's spot near the head of the table, across from Minerva. Dumbledore's place at the head of the table was empty, though that might've been because there wasn't a chair there. Severus was in the chair beside her instead of standing behind her, a stormcloud shadow.

There had been meetings since the Ministry had fallen, but they'd been small and quiet. Clandestine gatherings, a few people gathered in the corner booth at a pub. Hermione hadn't been to any of them, and only knew that they'd been taking place because Minerva had mentioned it.

"Alright," Mr. Weasley said, shooting a look at the twins that quieted them down immediately. "We're here to talk about what happened. All the facts on the table. Answer each others' questions."

"What about him?" Ron asked, surprisingly almost everybody when it wasn't Severus he gestured to but Kingsley.

"What _about_ me?" Kingsley asked.

"You're the Minister now."

"None of this is on the official record," Kingsley said, his voice low and steady as always. He really was a good choice to lead after a crisis. Even under stress he sounded unflappable. (And he'd been dealing with a lot of stress in the week since the violence at Hogwarts; the least of which came from Ron Weasley at a picnic dinner.)

"The Order of the Phoenix is a vigilante group, after all," Fred put in.

"If we officially exist, we officially have to be prosecuted for taking the law into our own hands," George finished.

"Precisely," Kingsley said, helping himself to a large scoop of mashed potatoes.

They talked as they ate. There was a marvelous roast, big chunks of cooked vegetables, and mashed potatoes with gravy. They passed around a basket of fresh-baked rolls. Beer and hard cider to drink. It would've been a hardy picnic if not for the topic of conversation.

Fred and George started them off, talking about watching in Diagon Alley and helping to pass information between the Order. Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle talked about keeping the Dursleys safe (mostly from Vernon's penchant to get bored and declare the whole endeavor a lot of claptrap). Others had more to tell—Kinglsey had stayed at his post guarding the Muggle Minister, Hilary Glass had developed a dangerous habit of "losing" case files the Death Eaters drew up against people who stood up against them.

Hermione felt like she talked for a long time when it was her turn. She told them about sticking to Harry's side the last half of sixth year, about Dumbledore's search for the Horcruxes and his plans to die. Harry took over at one point to talk about their time on the run. She told them about breaking into Gringotts.

"It would've been completely counter to my assignment to let him rob Gringotts," Hermione said, eyebrows raised at them all. "He'd likely have been captured and killed."

"Instead she bloody planned capture as her escape plan," Severus said, speaking for the first time. Bill, one of the few who knew more-or-less the full story of her incursion, chuckled. Hermione glared at him while he told them all about the immediate fallout at Gringotts and what he'd walked into that morning when he'd turned up for work.

"You weren't put in Ministry holding," Mr. Weasley said. "I was keeping a lookout on the cells."

"I was only there for an hour or so. They took me to Malfoy Manor."

"The Muggle Fights," Kingsley said, nodding slowly. Hermione nodded once.

"It was a good thing the 'Battle of Hogwarts' developed when it did," Severus said. "I likely blew my cover trying to get her out—it was only a matter of time before somebody investigated and discovered who conjured the Mark that scattered the crowd."

They talked a bit about the fight: the Battle of Hogwarts. They toasted absent friends.

"I think we need to address the dragon," Dmitri Hill, one of the Aurors, said. It went quiet. Most of the Order looked away from Hermione conspicuously enough that Harry and Ron both looked at her, eyebrows raised.

"The dragon?" Ron asked.

Severus's hand was clenched on the table, which was somehow very endearing. She put her hand on his and squeezed gently before sitting back, feigning ease, and looking at Hill.

"Well?" she asked. Hill looked away before speaking again.

"How did it start? Who did it start with? Why did it happen?"

"What's 'the dragon?'" Ron asked again.

"I was," Hermione said, looking away form Hill only long enough to glance at Ron. "For how—he gave me a name and told me when he needed from them. For who—I don't remember who was first." That was a lie. "For why—I wish I knew. For my part, they why was 'because Dumbledore told me to.'"

"You didn't know why, but you went along?"

"I don't think you understand how my relationship with Dumbledore worked." It came out more sharply than she'd intended. She took a deep breath before continuing. "I was barely seventeen, angry with my friends because they hadn't invited me to Christmas over something petty and juvenile, feeling left out. Sent home to parents who had _no_ idea what was going on." It hit her, just then. The loss of them. Her hands clenched into fists on the arm rests. Severus pried her fingers from the wood, lacing them with his. The gesture was hidden by the table, and she felt like lifting his hand to her lips just for the reaction. Instead, she continued, "He needed somebody to train as a Healer. Somebody close to Harry. Somebody who was already part of the Order. I volunteered, of course. Anything to be useful. I didn't realize until it was well past too late that he never intended for me to return to school with my peers. I needed N.E.W.T. scores for the Healing course, so I studied for those first. Then he sent me to do other research, learn from other contacts.

"I think he was hoping I'd stumble on a cure for his hand." She understood why he'd want it, pitied him his dread of death (strangely human of him, after all), but hated him for it, too. If she'd found a counter curse, would he have opted to let the Vow kill Severus?

Severus squeezed her hand, bringing her back again, anchoring her. "I didn't, though. I just… I became the dragon."

"What's 'the dragon?'" Ron asked again, more insistent. She could hear the dread in his voice.

"An assassin, Ron. I killed people. Dumbledore gave me a name; I went to their house and waited for them. Then I took what information I could from their minds, collected evidence from their hiding spots, and killed them. The Death Eaters called me the dragon because I burnt the house behind me. No evidence."

Ron looked impressed. Ginny looked horrified. Harry looked… thoughtful.

Abruptly, Severus stood and walked away. She wished she could, too. She'd rather put the dragon behind her, lock it all away in a box in her mind and never think about it again.

"Dumbledore never… It wasn't like that last time," Mrs. Weasley said quietly.

"I think he was desperate. He was dying and afraid of what would happen when he was gone. He didn't want to leave pieces on the board, and since he couldn't trust that Azkaban meant true removal from play…" She let it trail off.

"Don't talk about it like it was a game of chess," Hill said.

"It's the most convenient metaphor," Hermione replied, shrugging. "And just because I can understand his motivation doesn't make it right. I wish I'd told him no. Or at least objected."

Severus returned with a Pensieve. She'd thought he'd just gone to cool off, take a walk, get some distance.

Silence fell along the tables. The dishes, which Mrs. Weasley had charmed to bus themselves, were the only noise, clinking softly as they stacked together and drifted off toward the house.

Severus conjured a tall table and arranged the Pensieve on it, Shrinking the lid and stowing it in his pocket. Then he removed a memory, placed it in the basin, and turned to look at them all with one eyebrow arched.

One by one, the Order put their faces in the Pensieve and vanished into the memory. Harry—the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One—went first, then Ron and the rest of the Weasleys. Everybody else followed their example.

"What are you showing them?"

"A fight with Dumbledore." He took her hand and led her to the Pensieve.

"Which one?" she asked, and he smirked.

And then they were in the Pensieve. They were in the memory of the headmaster's office. They arrived just in time to watch Severus entirely ignore the offer of a lemon drop and take a seat instead. They were at the desk. Fawkes perched on the back of Dumbledore's chair.

"How did it go?" Dumbledore asked, popping the declined sweet into his own mouth and stowing it in his cheek. "You look no worse for wear."

"It was a quiet evening. For once, the blame could be safely assigned elsewhere on all counts."

"Oh?"

"I am to tell you that he applauds your growth of…" Severus cleared his throat, looked away. Dumbledore smiled benignly, clearly amused. Severus scowled at him when he caught the look. "'The old man finally grew a pair; give him my congratulations,' was the exact turn of phrase."

Dumbledore laughed merrily. "Odd choice of compliments, is it not?"

"Indubitably."

"You misunderstand. It's a Muggle phrase."

"Very amusing, sir." His tone was very nearly sarcastic.

"Indeed it is, my boy. Indeed it is."

"Why Edward Barr, Headmaster?"

"Hm?"

"The wizard your 'dragon' killed tonight. Edward Barr. He was a paper-pusher with Magical Law Enforcement. An aging Auror relegated to filing and research after his last head injury."

"He was plotting to kill the Minister of Magic."

"He was Rabastan's plaything." The memory Severus stood and began to pace. Those watching the memory, who had gathered around the desk as it progressed, stumbled out of his way before realizing he'd walk through them like a ghost. "A sinner, surely, but not a true threat."

"Odd that you call his plots his sins," Dumbledore said, fingers steepled together, gray fingers going white where they pressed against the healthy fingers. He watched memory Severus pace over the top rims of his glasses. "I'd say it was his vice that was the threat."

"His sin _was_ his vice, then."

"Many people would see it such."

"So plotting to kill the Minister is not a sin?"

"I'd say enacting the plot would be the actual sin. He was just keeping himself sane among the filing."

"So why did you have him killed, then? Were you proving a point to the Dark Lord?" His voice was low, just on the edge of mocking. Dumbledore just smiled at him, though.

"I am dying, Severus. I find that I have very little to prove. There are simply things that need to be done."

"You're mad. You've gone mad. Properly. Not barmy-old-codger mad, either. You've lost your mind. You've lost your _reason_."

"I assure you, I have my reasons."

Memory Severus threw himself back down in the chair, eyes intent on the headmaster. "Albus," he said at long last. "Haven't enough people died already?"

Dumbledore gave him a long, sad look. Hermione suspected he was imagining that Severus was thinking of Lily, and perhaps he had been.

"It is a necessary sin, Severus."

"Are you doing the killing yourself, then? Is it your sin or your vice?" The sneer that wasn't on his face was clear in his voice.

"It is my sin most certainly, Severus. But no; I am not the one doing what needs to be done." He held up his cursed hand. "I find that I can't do everything that I planned to do."

Memory Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hence the dead minions? You can't enact all your grand plans because you won't be around the direct them, so you changed the game? Escalated your tactics?"

Hermione stepped into Severus's side, and he put his arm around her. She'd hoped he would.

This memory was from a very dark time. It had been the sort of dark where she hadn't realized it was dark. Her eyes had adjusted, as it were. She'd been doing as Dumbledore said, trusting him, not questioning, not looking beyond the assignment, the moment. She hadn't been happy; she'd known that much. But she'd been too hard, too broken, and Occluding too often to really feel anything beyond the pain of the killing and the desperate need to push on through.

Dumbledore didn't reply. After a moment of quiet during which the two wizards stared at each other, Dumbledore folded his hands on the desk, hiding the damaged one with the healthy one and a habitual twitch of his sleeve.

"After you've killed me, Severus—"

"I've told you I won't do it."

"Not your vice?" Dumbledore said, the words cutting. Severus didn't react, but Hermione knew him well enough to know that he would've flinched if he could have.

"A sin I _won't _have on my conscious."

"You took a Vow, my boy."

"So I will die."

"And what use will that be, hm?" Dumbledore asked, bushy white eyebrows raised. He looked for all the world like he was directing a particularly slow student to an obvious conclusion. "And what of young Draco?"

"Maybe you should just set your dragon on the Dark Lord. Whoever they are, they seem competent enough at the task you've set them."

"You are more than competent at the task I've set _you_."

"I didn't say I couldn't do it. I said I wouldn't do it."

"I say you will, Severus Snape. And so you will," Dumbledore said. He hadn't stood, he hadn't raised his voice. His presence filled the room, though. His magic rolled around, vibrating back off the wards that were tuned to him as headmaster. In Severus's memory, the room went dark around the edges with the pressure of the foreign magic against him.

"Yes, sir."

They sat in silence. The light had returned, and Dumbledore had fished another lemon drop out of the dish on his desk. Memory Severus kept very still, like a rabbit that has just realized there is a fox watching it.

"I expect next term's Potions budget on my desk by Wednesday. You are going through knotgrass rather quickly this year, aren't you?"

"Yes, Headmaster."

Severus stood and swept out, slamming the door behind him.

The memory ended and they were again standing on the lawn outside the Burrow. It was strangely picturesque. The sky was clear and bright, the grass (and the weeds by the fence) was absurdly green and hearty. Compared to the misery of the memory, the way she remembered feeling that night, the long picnic tables and the hearty meal spread on them was perfection.

"You broke several bones in your hand that night," Hermione said, remembering. She'd still been calling him Professor Snape. He'd arrived at her flat—the same flat where they'd later conceived their son—and held out his bleeding appendage. She'd fixed it, and he'd seemed to want to linger, but he hadn't.

"I punched a wall."

* * *

**A/N: Feedback would be much appreciated here! I'm trying to explain Dumbledore without making excuses for him He was a ruthless bastard, and I think he was in the books, too; you just don't see it so much because he used positive reinforcement to get what he wanted out of Harry. Also, it's been ages since I wrote actual-Dumbledore not portrait-Dumbledore. Comments, questions, haiku?**

**On an unrelated note, I found my livejournal password. So I've started that again— or at least I'm trying to remember how to do that. (I'm mak5258 there, too.) What I'd really like to do is create a cache of my stories there (namely this one), maybe find somebody to Brit-pick it, generally polish it to a fine shine and keep it there all pretty and stuff. I need to figure out how to get it on livejournal first, though... (Help?)**

**On an entirely different unrelated note, I'm looking for vacation suggestions. Probably a month from now at the earliest, most likely mid- to late-September. Where's your favorite vacation spot? Honestly, I'd love to visit the UK, but I don't know how long it would take to arrange an international trip. (September is going to be a good gap time so far as work goes— and that's a whole different note, much better suited to that re-found livejournal than an A/N— but I just found that out today. Hence the jumping to plan a vacation thing.)**

**So yeah. I'd love feedback on this chapter, especially on Dumbledore. Anybody who has pointers for livejournal feel free to send them my way. And vacation suggestions, please and thank you!**

**Cheers!**

**— M**


	52. Chapter Fifty-One

**A/N: I'm responding to amr's review here since it was a "guest review" and I can't send a message back. Feel free to skip on down to the not-bolded text for the chapter.**

**Okay. My response— The first time, Dumbledore didn't sanction killing. He didn't have wet works people, he didn't kill in duels. He captured, he put them in Azkaban. This time, he's escalated. Voldemort complimented Dumbledore on growing a pair because he finally killed somebody, so Voldemort is mocking Dumbledore since he knows that Dumbledore sees it as sinking to his (Voldemort's) level and it amuses him. **

**So far as Edward Barr as Rabastan Lestrange's plaything goes, I didn't mean sexually. Lestrange was toying with him, telling him his assassination ideas were good plans, inciting him to recklessness so as to be the perfect scapegoat. Snape was making the point that Dumbledore had had a pawn killed— somebody relatively harmless, especially since the Order had known to watch him.**

**And the sin and vice confusion: Dumbledore's sin was killing. Lestrange's vice was killing, so Dumbledore's sin is Lestrange's vice. **

**I wasn't referring to a personal/sexual relationship between Barr and Dumbledore. Just the player (Dumbledore) removing the opposing side's pawn (Barr). The sin in question was murder, not sex. **

**It's about the way we think about sins and vices, the way we perceive our actions is what makes one thing a sin to Person A and a vice to Person B. Any question of morality is subjective. That thought was where my title came from, at least— the story grew and changed quite a bit, and I never addressed it directly, and I almost feel like doing so at this point would be pandering****. Sort of a discarded discussion on the subjectivity of morality.**

**Did I answer your points of question? I feel like I got off track...**

* * *

Mr. Weasley brought out the brandy. It wasn't particularly good brandy, but it was passed around anyway. Hermione and Severus both declined, sharing a smile.

"I don't think—" Harry cut himself off, clearing his throat. "People shouldn't know about that."

"Agreed," Severus said, surprising most of the others at the table.

"What?" Hill asked, taking a second gulp from the bottle when it came back around to him.

"You know what was at stake and you know why, and you needed to come in and have a drink," Severus said, but gently. He wasn't judging them, just reminding them what had happened. "We need Albus Dumbledore to be the benevolent grandfather. It's who he wanted to be."

"But he—" Hill said, but stopped and looked away. "Why are you, of all people, defending him?"

"That was just one of many arguments he and I had. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. We agreed on the ends, not always the means."

"Did you fight with him, too, then?" Kingsley asked Hermione. She smiled and shook her head.

"Oh, no. I mostly just drank."

He almost smiled at her, but he remembered the look of her the morning after she'd been sent out to play the dragon too well for it.

In Dumbledore's terms of sin and vice, her sin had been the killing and her vice had been the drinking. It was the opposite of Severus's father, ironically—the drinking had been Tobias Snape's sin, and beating his wife and son had been his vice.

A bottle of firewhiskey had been produced and joined the brandy making the round of the group.

"Are you pregnant?" Mrs. Weasley asked Hermione when she passed on the bottle.

"No," Hermione said. Severus rolled his eyes—they'd been too exhausted in the week since the Battle of Hogwarts to do more than hold onto each other and fall asleep. They'd had a very nice snog the previous morning upon waking, but they were sleeping in the sitting room. The children had been up before they could go much further, and this morning Minerva had bustled in and woken them before anything could even start. "The memory just didn't shock me."

"What are we going to say at the debriefing?" Bill asked, bringing them back on point. "As I understand it, whatever is said will be a sealed record. The public won't hear it, but the Wizengamot will."

"We don't have enough people to have a full Wizengamot hearing, which is why it will just be a debriefing on the record," Kingsley said. "There will be a panel and Dictaquills. The statements will be used to determine who goes to trial, if anybody."

"So we just tell them what happened? We don't need to leave the..."

"The remains of the Wizengamot knew Dumbledore longer than most of us were alive," Minerva said. She sounded more collected than the others, but Severus supposed that was because she'd known Dumbledore for longer than most of the rest had been alive, too. She'd seen glimpses of his ruthless backbone before. His dedication to the greater good over all else.

\\\

Hermione had fallen asleep in one of the wingbacks in the sitting room. He'd gone in to check on the children—they'd been sleeping soundly; they hadn't even twitched when he'd kissed them—and when he came out again she was out like a light.

_So much for pregnancy_, he thought, smirking to himself.

She looked younger when she slept, but that seemed to be the way of it. Everybody looked younger when they slept.

Her mad hair, braided back all day, had begun to come loose. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt beneath a long-sleeved robe. A gray-blue brocade that she'd opened up before she sat down. The fine quality of the robes clashed with the casual Muggle clothes.

Severus considered waking her. Before he made up his mind, her eyes opened. She looked at him like she'd been awake the whole time. Had he completely imagined the boneless way she'd slumped in the chair?

"That was a long afternoon," Hermione said, shifting out of the wingback and onto the sofa beside them. It was still transfigured to be more bed-like, wider and longer.

"We made them uncomfortable."

"That's nothing new."

He smirked, putting his arm around her waist and pulling her close.

* * *

The children were off somewhere with Hagrid. (He was probably showing them baby Blast-Ended Skrewts or something equally horrible.) They had the run of the school these days. A week and a half after the Battle of Hogwarts (a name from the _Prophet_ that didn't seem to be going away), most of the debris had been cleared away and there was always a house elf (usually Tup) paying attention to redirect them as needed. After so long confined to the headmaster's quarters, they were making up for lost time.

Meanwhile, Hermione was on her own this morning, at least for awhile; Severus was at Gringotts again. Hermione found herself in the entrance hall working the familiar protective enchantments into the new stonework.

The masons had been hard at work for the past few days, patching the castle back together. The professors were occupied convincing the statuary and suits of armor to return to their alcoves and pedestals (a trio of medieval suits of armor had taken it upon themselves to patrol the halls, and at some point they'd begun taking direction from Sir Cadogen).

Hermione finished the section of wall and turned in time to see Peeves floating off toward the Charms classroom, singing his victory song ("We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the one. Now Voldy's gone moldy, so now let's have fun!") and swinging what looked like his handy old sock full of chalk.

It was nice that some things never changed.

"I've just seen Sebastian taking on Minerva at chess," Severus said from behind her. It was a perfect day and she'd left the doors open while she worked; he was coming up the steps.

"She's avoiding Ezra Pierce, I think. He's around today."

"Oh, God. Let's go down to Hogsmeade for lunch."

"There are reporters camped out in the village."

"Better them than Pierce."

"I think they'd put me off my lunch."

"Maybe we could hide in the kitchens here."

"You don't need to hide, Severus," she said, rolling her eyes at him, but smiling too. "You're not the headmaster any more, so you're not the one he wants to talk to."

"He's proposing a victory ball," Severus said, frowning, looking up and down the hall like they might summon him if they thought about him too much. "He'd just love to get us cornered and convince us to attend."

"It's too soon. It doesn't feel like a victory," Hermione said. She pointed at the next section of wall she had to work on—it shone, new and strangely pristine. She hadn't noticed that most of the walls had scorch marks from the torches that lit the hallways until the masons had begun to replace the stonework. She'd stared at a stretch of wall for almost three full minutes before she'd put her finger on the problem. "We haven't even had time for funerals, yet."

The bodies of the fallen had been claimed by friends or family, and arrangements were being made. Lavender Brown's service would be the first, the day after the debriefing. Then it would be a rapid flow from one funeral to the next.

Unless, of course, they tried to send her to Azkaban. Then she'd be on the run and she wouldn't be able to attend any of the funerals at all.

"I've convinced the goblins you aren't a horrible person," Severus said. She smiled at him, grateful for the change of subject. "I donated half a dozen goblin-made items from one of the Prince vaults. It made _them_ very happy and it probably has Princes rolling over in their graves, so _I'm_ happy. And here is your key."

"Does this mean I have to go to your banking meetings now?"

"With any luck, that was the last of them."

"You weren't negotiating my access, were you?"

"No. That was more of a perk. All the old vaults tend to have services and securities attached—"

"Like dragons?"

"Yes. But we don't have a dragon."

"Good. That poor thing…"

"We have a goblin assigned to us. A sort of financial advisor."

"I suppose he's the one who chose which artifacts would compensate for my crimes?"

"Yes, but he'd selected a round dozen. I brought Ernie Mortimer with me and he negotiated a better settlement."

"I thought he just handled the Hogwarts affairs."

"Personal favor. He was very professional this past year—just keeping his head down and carrying on—but he seems to be feeling apologetic for thinking badly of me."

"Well that's lucky."

"Indeed. Anyway, we've got it all sorted now, I believe. There are some terribly nasty curses guarding the vault."

"You look as though there's a good deal more to say but you don't want to say it."

"Well, you're not going to like it."

"I don't like radishes, but not talking about them doesn't make them cease to exist."

"We own several houses now. All of them have house elves assigned to them."

"Oh."

S.P.E.W. had been a lifetime ago. She'd all but given up on it after she'd gained some perspective on elves, but that was a long way from being comfortable with owning house elves. Plural.

"How many…?"

"I don't know for sure. A handful are here, actually. They came to— attend me— once I inherited, though I didn't known it at the time. I assumed they were Hogwarts elves assigned to me, not family elves overruling school elves' claim on the headmaster."

"Tup?" Hermione guessed. Severus nodded.

"And a girl-elf called Thorpe intended for you, but your wards were too good for her to get to you unless you called her."

"You said there were a handful here?"

"Nim, Pip and Steven. I think Nim is the head house elf of Prince House. I haven't sorted out their hierarchy yet."

"Oh, God, Severus," Hermione moaned. Severus just laughed at her discomfort.


	53. Chapter Fifty-Two

It had been weeks now, and the majority of the structural damages to the castle had been fixed. There were still great piles of rubble stacked in the oddest places, portraits out of place and fond of telling passersby about it. By and large, however, the castle had begun to look like itself again. It didn't feel quite right, but that was mostly because he wasn't attached to the wards any more.

Hermione was off in the hospital wing helping Poppy with the last few patients on their way to St. Mungo's. He'd been restocking the infirmary constantly, the girls watching his every move from their identical tall stools in the lab. (It was just lucky that the most useful healing potions weren't prone to explosive reactions or putting off toxic steam during brewing; it had been an excellent opportunity to pass the days with the twins.)

Flitwick giggled uproariously, bringing Severus back to the moment. He, Minerva, Flitwick and Pomona were seated in a courtyard with lunch on a conjured table. They'd been talking about the last year, and it had been almost painful—the professors spent half the time apologizing for not seeing through his ruse. Luckily, the conversation had begun to turn to the opportunity for educational reform on their horizon.

"Hello," Hermione said, making her way across the courtyard surprisingly quickly in her high heels. She'd taken to wearing Muggle business attire when she went to the Ministry, a 'subtle' reminder that she was Muggle-born. She wore short sleeves more often than not, too, clearly displaying the white letters carved into her inner arm by Bellatrix. (He was getting used to seeing them; he didn't feel the urge to storm off and eviscerate the dead witch at the sight of them any longer.)

"Hello, dear," Minerva said jovially, smiling when Hermione sat down on the retaining wall next to Severus and kissed his cheek in greeting. Severus felt like he should have blushed under the scrutiny, but glared at Minerva instead.

"There's an ambassador from the Australian Ministry who wants to meet with us, Severus," she said, nodding her thanks when he handed her his plate. He still had half a sandwich and most of his chips left for her.

"I suppose they're pushing to extradite us or something?"

"They wouldn't say. I had to sign a form saying that I'd received notice of the appointment and planned to clear my schedule to attend, though."

"Better you than me."

Mentally, she rolled her eyes at him.

"Why is there an Australian ambassador to meet with?" Flitwick asked, helping himself to another handful of chips.

"Madam Snape!" A house elf said, popping into the courtyard and twitching excitedly from foot to foot. "Madam Snape, Madam Poppy is wanting you in the hospital!"

"Thanks for lunch," Hermione said, handing him his plate back, and taking the hand the elf offered her. With a pop, they were gone.

"I'd hardly call that lunch," he mumbled after her, looking down at his plate. She'd eaten a few bites of sandwich and even fewer chips.

"You really must tell us how that came to be," Pomona said, popping the last of her own sandwich into her mouth and looking ridiculously innocent in her cheerfulness. It was like none of the last year had happened, and they just happened to be gathered for lunch in the courtyard as Heads of House. The four of them had been known to gather socially on occasion, though they rarely had time for it while school was in session.

He scowled at Pomona because he felt like it was expected of him, and because he wasn't sure where to start.

"All I know about it is that they used to spend quite a bit of time shouting at each other at headquarters, and then Severus asked me down to his quarters last Christmas for a bit of wine that turned out to be serving as their witness. He did get her a very nice ring," Minerva said. She sounded a lot like he expected an aunt or some other close female relative would. A particularly doting aunt, fond of him and his choice in bride. He had to fight down the urge to blush again as he spun his wedding ring around on his finger (they'd finally had a moment to take them out of the bottom of Hermione's satchel, and he didn't plan to take it off ever again if he could help it).

"That's about all there is to know about it," he said petulantly, getting smirks in return. His glare had lost its power on the Heads of House ages ago. Minerva beamed at him. Flitwick chuckled. Pomona looked like she wanted to hug him until he gave over and talked.

He felt suddenly tearful. He'd missed this. Having friends.

* * *

They left the children with Tup. (Most of their first choices for babysitters would be part of the hearing.) The little elf bobbed and smiled eagerly, talking about all the food she was going to make for "the babies." Bast had that gleam in his eye that usually meant he was aiming for an overlarge amount of something chocolate to replace a proper meal.

"They'll be fine," Severus whispered in her ear, taking her hand. The Hogwarts contingent was taking a Portkey out together. They had to go to the Great Hall to meet the others.

"I know they will, I just…"

He kissed her temple, let go of her hand to wrap his arm around her waist, and she let him guide her away. A small, terrified voice in the back of her mind tried to tell her that she should bring them with, that it wouldn't be such a bother to sit with them. But this hearing was definitely not a place she wanted the children, nor was the Ministry.

"How are you so calm about all this?"

"We're bloody _alive_, Hermione," he murmured, low enough that nobody else would hear. "If I've learned anything, it's that that's all it takes."

"You're going to make me cry."

He rolled his eyes at her. She poked him in the ribs. Minerva smiled tolerantly at them.

"Oh, stop _flirting_," Poppy said, feigning annoyance. "You've already married each other."

"We even filed the paperwork," Hermione said agreeably. Minerva held out an old copy of the _Prophet_ and they all gathered around. Hagrid, Flitwick, Sprout, Minerva and Poppy touched the paper and, as the clock struck eight, they were whisked away to the Ministry.

The atrium was full of people. The press lurched in on all sides, screaming over each other to the point where Hermione couldn't make out a single question. Flashbulbs went off, filling the air with bursts of bright light and puffs of white smoke.

"Bloody ridiculous,"Flitwick muttered, expertly navigating the crowd by ducking around knees. He was quickly out of sight. Hermione was quite jealous.

Slowly, they made their way from the arrival point to the main entrance. They all had their wands checked and were given a badge that read, "Hearing in Courtroom B."

They were the first group to arrive. The courtroom was large and empty. There was a raised dais with a long table on it, lamps and writing implements at each chair. At the foot of the dais was another long table with seven scrolls of parchment in neat rolls and matched to seven tidy black Dictaquills. The center of the room held a single chair, very plain. (Flitwick conjured it a nice cushion for it immediately.) The rest of the room was ringed with low benches. They looked almost like church pews, but rounded to fit the circular shape of the room.

The light was yellow-white and ambient. The woods were dark. The stone was beige. There were no decorations on the walls, nor were there cobwebs in the corners. A very straight-forward, functional room.

The Weasleys—or at least most of them—arrived next. George helped Fred in while Mrs. Weasley hovered. Mr. Weasley followed her with Ginny. Charlie, Ron and Harry seemed to be talking Quidditch.

The rest began pouring in. Dedalus Diggle with his ridiculous top hat. Hestia Jones chatting amiably with Augusta Longbottom. Bill and Fleur walking hand-in-hand. Neville, Luna and most of the D.A. walking in like they were trying to sneak in, like they didn't belong. Mr. Ollivander and Aberforth Dumbledore, both of whom nodded solemnly at Severus.

Looking around, Hermione had to repress a laugh. They looked like a ridiculous bunch. They didn't fit together in the least, just looking at them. There were shop owners and pub owners, teachers, representatives from all levels and most departments of the Ministry, very old and very young. They were a ragged bunch. Only a handful hadn't been at what the press had begun to call the Battle of Hogwarts, and they'd been the ones at the Ministry. Very few of them had had a proper moment to recoup since the beginning of the month.

They did fit together, however. The Order had never operated in cells, communication had been open. Smaller groups had met, but they'd been more like committees with their decisions shared with the larger group at the next full meeting. Only at the end, when Dumbledore had been dying, had the secrets begun.

They were chatting, milling about the space, sharing the tea somebody had found in an anteroom when the panel arrived. Hermione had been chatting quite amiably with Kinglsey, holding tight to Severus to keep him from going over and reaming Ron across the coals for telling the story of Voldemort's demise by crate _again_, when somebody cleared their throat. It was close enough to Umbridge's _hem hem_ that the room was immediately silent, all eyes trained on the poor secretary—tall and lean with a pixie haircut; no way in the slightest reminiscent of the toad.

"Er. Good morning," the secretary said. "My name is Cecelia Wormwood."

Most of the people in the room probably had already known who she was. They either worked at the Ministry with her, or they'd taught her. She blushed.

"If you'll all take your seats, please?"

Slowly, still chatting a bit, the Order, the D.A., and the rest found someplace to sit. Hermione and Severus ended up off to one side and far enough back so that they could see most of the room.

"Good morning," Cecelia Wormwood said again, standing near the chair at the center of the room and eyeing the cushion suspiciously. "This is the official debriefing hearing concerning the events leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts—"

Somebody scoffed at the name. Wormwood straightened her shoulders, glared into the middle distance, and ignored it.

"—leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts. Everything said during this hearing will be on record." She gestured to the Dictaquills already scratching away, taking down her introduction. "However, none of the statements recorded here will be admissible as testimony. The purpose of this hearing is merely to establish a grounding of facts from as many of the people closely involved in the events as possible."

The room was very still. It seemed to be making Wormwood uncomfortable.

"Let's begin, shall we?" Abraham Ketterling, one of the panelists, asked. He looked vaguely like Dumbledore, with his long beard and spectacles, but that was where the resemblance ended. His hair was stone gray instead of white, and while he wore the long beard he had no mustache to go with it. He had bushy eyebrows, and a mad mess of kinky hair on top of his head. His eyes were brown, not blue. His nose was small and straight to Dumbledore's crooked. He was a pleasant sort of man, to look at him. Hermione vaguely recalled hearing that he'd made his career in Charms research and spent most of the previous year hiding in Portugal penning letters to the _Daily Prophet_ that had never been printed.

"Yes, lets," Minerva said, arranging her robes more comfortably around her.

There was a moment for figuring out the logistics. The panel—six witches and wizards, most of them fairly old—took their seats and sharpened the nibs on their quills. In addition to Ketterling, there was Alexander Wendt the potioneer from St. Mungo's, James North of the Department of Finance, Laurel Willis the Obliviator, Constance Martin the Unspeakable, and Hamish O'Connor from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Martin looked a bit like a Viking she-warrior. O'Connor was lean and freckled. North and Willis were both so old and wrinkled that it was hard to decipher any distinguishing features beyond his bulbous protuberance of a nose and her near-yellow eyes.

North had sat on the Wizengamot at some point but retired from politics years ago. O'Connor had been a favorite for eventual Minister of Magic before the whispers of Voldemort had surfaced. Ketterling had been the wizard selected to replace Dumbledore as Head Mugwump briefly when Umbridge had had him ousted. The others had never been part of the Wizengamot.

_A few empty seats to fill, it seems_, Hermione thought, catching Severus's eye and smirking. The Wizengamot had been loaded in Voldemort's favor, and Kingsley's quick work at the Ministry meant most of them were pacing holding cells at the moment.


	54. Chapter Fifty-Three

It was the third trial he'd taken part in. There were dozen more, subpoenas for his testimony arriving every morning with the post as regularly as the damn newspaper.

Life after the Dark Lord seemed, at times, to consist of nothing more than attending funerals and sitting in a courtroom testifying against people he'd known since he was a teenager.

This one would be different since he was testifying in Lucius's favor. He'd be at Draco and Narcissa's trials, too, when those dates were set.

As usual, the courtroom was strangely hushed when he walked in. He took his place in the witness box and looked at Brunswick, who didn't look so happy to see him as he normally did. Brunswick hadn't been the one to call him in this time, of course; apparently that left a foul taste in his mouth.

\\\

"Chin up, shoulders back," Severus instructed, adjusting Draco's robe over his shoulders. (It was one of Severus's shrunk down to fit.) "You are a Malfoy, after all. And you were exonerated."

Draco nodded, finally making eye contact. Severus almost smiled at him.

"Try to look contrite. You were cleared, but your parents were not. You need to encourage public favor. Not only for yourself, but your good image could lead to earlier parole for them." Lucius had ten years mostly because he'd escaped once already. Narcissa had two. If they played their hand right, Narcissa could be out in as little as six months. Lucius would be lucky if he was out in five years.

Draco managed to look like a constipated man who has just taken a potion that will solve his problem by inducing burning diarrhea.

"Let's go, then. Don't make eye contact."

They stepped out of the anteroom, where they'd been allowed just enough time for Draco to change his robe. (He'd still been wearing the spelled-clean school robe he'd had on during the Battle of Hogwarts). The crowd didn't press in on them, but the silence did.

"Make way," Severus snapped, and the hint of a path through the crush of people appeared. He took Draco by the elbow and stalked through, keeping his face blank when people jumped apart. The questions began to rain down on them after that, blunt and ruthless. He could feel Draco shaking, but he didn't slow down.

The atrium was worse. The majority of the press wasn't allowed down to the level of the courts, so they'd been forced to wait. Where the questions outside the court had been blunt, the questions from the press were almost mean. Severus rushed Draco through the Floo as quickly as he could.

They got to the suite at Hogwarts and Severus pushed Draco into a chair. The boy looked nauseous.

"What happens now?" Draco asked, speaking to his knees.

"I suggest you study for your N.E.W.T.s. They're offering them in a month's time." The boy would need something to focus on that had nothing to do with the war. "And begin petitioning for visitation with your parents."

"I _don't_ want to see them. They've ruined my life."

"They've saved your life."

"It was their fault it needed saving."

"Stop being an ungrateful little shit."

Draco gaped, his head snapping up so that he could look at him properly. Severus held back a smile. Nobody talked to Draco like that. Only Severus, and not since he was a boy, years before Hogwarts. (Of course, back then it had simply been reminding him to use his manners, not calling him names.) The charade was over now.

"You can't afford to act like a ponce anymore, Draco."

Draco drew himself up, sitting perfectly straight in his chair, then deflated. Severus knew he'd been about to draw on his father's reputation and almost (_almost_) pitied him.

"You're your own man. You have to be," Severus said, giving him a cool, watchful look. "You are correct—it is your choice if you want to associate with your parents or not. It is your reputation that their reception will be based on."

"Can't I just…"

Severus did pity him, then. He'd be eighteen soon, but he wasn't really ready for the world, not after the year he'd had.

"Yes," he said, squeezing Draco's shoulder. "Stay here awhile. Recuperate. Think." Then he smirked. "The rest of the world won't be able to get at you to heckle you, but I can't make any promises for my children."

"Your—

"I swear to God, Severus, that ambassador made it sound like the whole of the country of Australia has been personally insulted by us," Hermione said, breezing in and tossing her purse down on the table. "Oh. Hello, Malfoy."

"Granger."

"Snape, actually," Hermione said. Severus's lip twitched entirely without his permission. _Madam Snape_. He tucked the thought away before she caught it. "I got up his nose a bit, I think."

"What is it they want?"

"All they're allowed to do is fine us, and not all that much. They took the house and its contents, illegal residency and all that. And it was heavily implied that there will be consequences if we ever return—legitimately or otherwise. I think somebody up the chain of command thinks it a rather romantic tale, though. They're transporting my parents over, no strings attached. And the _Times_ wants to interview us."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"I told them no. I said it nicer than you just did, though."

"The press have started trying to sneak into the castle, too." He sighed.

Draco began to ask another question, but this time he was interrupted by a Patronus calling Hermione to St. Mungo's again.

* * *

It was almost July; there was a full month's worth of time between them and the Battle of Hogwarts, the demise of Tom Riddle. Most days, she was too busy to appreciate it, though.

She'd spent most of May and a good chunk of June splitting her time between hearings, funerals and repairing Hogwarts. It felt like she'd hardly seen her children, and she hardly had any time to talk to Severus properly.

The best times were after the funerals. They all went back to the suite at Hogwarts and sat together. After the first few, they'd talked to the children about death. After awhile, it just became a time for them to be together and catch up on things—what new beastie Hagrid had introduced Bast to, the twins' latest games in the greenhouses.

Lavender's had been the first funeral. Hermione had pulled the robe she'd worn to Dumbledore's funeral out, thinking about so very long ago (and not so very long ago at all) when Lavender had complimented her on it. It had been one of the only compliments she'd ever received from the girl.

Lavender Brown was buried in her family plot. An old kirkyard, a washed-out and older version of Lavender with wider hips standing next to a tall man with deep lines in his face.

The Governors had set aside a plot of land near Dumbledore's grave for those who had died in the Battle of Hogwarts. Severus said they were already planning an obelisk or something as a memorial. Perhaps a garden.

Colin Creevey's parents had taken him home to bury by his grandparents. The small Muggle cemetery had overflowed with witches and wizards, quite overwhelming the nice little couple; Colin had looked very much like his father. Dennis had been a brave face, standing between him parents and shaking hands solemnly.

The Lupins were buried together next to Dumbledore. Little Teddy cried through the whole ceremony even though he was too little to really understand that it was his parents' funeral. Andromeda Tonks held him on her lap and wept.

The Death Eaters and Snatchers that had died were given to the Ministry. They were held in the morgue for three weeks so that friends or family could claim the bodies. None were claimed. They were eventually put through the Veil, unmourned.

That was when it had begun. The first attack following the Battle of Hogwarts came the day the dead Death Eaters were unceremoniously levitated into the Death Chamber and through the veil.

Six Muggles were killed at a Starbucks in London. Two employees getting ready to close for the night, three random passers-by on the sidewalk outside, and one customer on their way out with a coffee. The Death Eaters carved 'WE'RE STILL HERE' across the storefront in letters that glowed like molten lava. The Dark Mark hovered above the building.

The Muggle papers reported that it had been two unrelated incidents—prank fireworks and a robbery-turned-murder. The wizarding papers practically frothed over with panic, sending witches and wizards who had been celebrating what they'd thought was the end of the war scurrying back into their houses and locking the doors behind them.

"You're staying," Minerva informed them. They'd begun to pack, discussing moving to one of the Prince properties or letting a cottage in Hogsmeade.

"Minerva—" Severus started, but she threw up her hands and talked over him.

"The traitor and the dragon and their vulnerable children? You are _targets_. I won't hear a word against it; you're staying here."

"Minerva—" Hermione tried, but Minerva cut her off with a sharp look.

"No. The pair of you have all but personally guaranteed that almost every surviving Death Eater has ended up in Azkaban. The only person they're likely to want dead more desperately than they want _you_ dead is Harry Potter."

"Is Harry—?"

"Harry is at the Burrow behind intensive wards. Conveniently, he's been hiding out from the press there and doesn't seem to mind staying put for the moment while the Aurors track the Death Eaters."

"So he and Ginny are back together, hm?" Hermione asked. Minerva finally cracked a grin.

"Thank you, Minerva," Severus said.

\\\

Bast spent a lot of time following Hagrid around. He was put in charge of Hagrid's daily to-do list, and they'd go through the items together. Hagrid would do the task, Bast would cross it off, and they'd go on to the next thing. The girls did the same sort of thing with Severus, sitting carefully on high stools while he brewed this or that potion and asking him endless questions.

Hermione spent most of her time at St. Mungo's helping where she could, so when the Patronus arrived shortly after Malfoy's release it was almost expected. She traded the Muggle skirt and heels she'd worn to her meeting with the Australian ambassador for jeans and trainers, resized one of Severus's old teaching coats (a frock coat that had seen better days—it was frayed at the hem and wrist, missing its top button, and faded to a sort of charcoal gray), and grabbed her satchel.

She could hear Harry shouting from down the hall.

"I'm fine, I'm FINE," he said, and she heard something bang. "Go help someone who _needs_ it."

"Harry?" Hermione asked when she stepped into the room, her eyebrows crawling up her forehead as she looked around. There were two junior Healers, one on either side of the bed, looking very put-out. Apparently the opportunity to treat Harry Potter personally wasn't going at all as they'd hoped it would.

"Hermione! Tell them I'm fine," Harry said, trying to get out of bed. One of the Healers gently pushed him back. "This is ridiculous."

"What happened?" Hermione asked instead, flicking her fingers to cast her usual run of diagnostic spells.

"I'm fine," he repeated petulantly.

"Actually, your leg is bleeding quite a bit." It was hard to tell with his grimy jeans, but the diagnostic reported a slice or gash half the length of his calf bleeding freely.

"Oh." Harry sat down and let her put his leg up on the bed, watched her enlarge the leg of his jeans so it would fold up easily past his knee. "I didn't notice."

"Adrenalin," she told him. He nodded.

They were quiet while she cleaned the area and then pulled out her charmed needle and thread and the accompanying potion. He looked away when she began sewing him up.

"So what've you been up to, Harry? I haven't seen you outside of the hearings in ages."

He might've shot her a look, but she didn't see it because she had her eyes on the slice. If she had to guess, she'd say he tripped and got caught on something sharp as he fell.

"Avoiding Rita Skeeter a lot," he said through gritted teeth. Hermione smiled.

"I'll see if I can do anything about her, if you like. I still have good blackmail, after all."

"I'd wondered why she hadn't written anything about you. Figured she might've registered by now."

"Too valuable an edge. If it was common knowledge, everybody would know to look for her, cast wards to keep her out."

"I suppose." Harry hissed when she applied the potion, flinching. It was over before he'd finished his reaction, though.

"Good as new."

"Did they call you here because I was yelling?" he asked sheepishly, putting his pant leg to rights.

"No. They called me because I've been helping out whenever there's an attack."

"You didn't know I was here?"

"Not until I heard you shouting," she said, smirking at him.

"I'm tired of people fussing over me, giving me special treatment, because I'm the Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One." The flopped half back on the pillows. "I didn't even kill Riddle."

A bark of surprised laughter escaped her. "Of course you did."

"I remember it pretty clearly, Hermione. And Ron retells is constantly, so—"

"And how would Severus have been in a position to do that if you hadn't done all that you already had? You led the search for the Horcruxes. You let the Order use you as a figurehead for our purpose after Dumbledore was gone. You weakened the Dark Lord to the point that he _could_ be killed with a crate. Don't undervalue any of it, Harry." She looked him over, hoping that he understood. "'Neither can live while the other survives' never meant you had to kill him. It just meant that as long as you were both around, you'd be against each other. Opposing each other to the end."

"I saw Dumbledore."

"What?"

"When I was—when we were—" Harry shrugged. "I don't know. Wherever it was. I spoke to him."

"It wasn't a hallucination? Just in your head?"

Harry grinned almost fondly. "Doesn't matter. He helped me leave that little piece of Riddle that was in my scar behind."

"Do you feel different now?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're not a Horcrux for the first time since you were a baby. Does it feel different?"

"I don't know. I've noticed it takes me longer to get angry, but that might just be… growing up."

\\\

They pretended their lives were normal. They developed a routine. It took the children two full weeks to notice that the family had stopped leaving the castle grounds.

They ate breakfast together in their living room. The children romped around with one adult or another—sometimes "helping" a professor with simple things, sometimes watching Severus brew, sometimes having a quiet day in the Governors' suite with Hermione. Severus brewed for the hospital wing and St. Mungo's, or met with Minerva to ease the load of recovering from a battle and preparing for the oncoming school year. Hermione helped Poppy putting the infirmary back to order for the school year, and kept an eye on the few remaining patients. Malfoy was like a shadow through all of it, watching, quiet. He studied for his N.E.W.T.s and tried to answer nicely when the children pestered him with questions.

"We can't stay here forever," Hermione pointed out one evening after the children were asleep, worn out from a day with Pomona in one of the greenhouses.

"We should start looking at the Prince properties. One of them is probably—hopefully—habitable."

"You don't think your various relatives cursed them out of spite?"

"They didn't know _I _would inherit."

"No, I mean in spite of each other—_When I kick it, Jim-Bob is going to get the silver. I just know it. He's been after the silver since he was twelve; I saw him pocket a spoon once. I'll just hex the whole silver cabinet for him, then…_"

"None of the Princes were named _Jim-Bob_."

"I think we should name our next son Jim-Bob."

"I think we'll have to find time to have sex to have another son."

"Oh, look at that."

"What?"

"I've found some time. Want to see it?"

He laughed, picked her up, and carried her into the tiny anteroom in the Governors' suite they'd converted into their bedroom.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for skipping over the hearings. I wrote them and they were boring (we already know what happened, after all), so I left them out.**

**Also, sorry about the off-tone ending to this chapter. It's a bit manic, I think, but I thought it was funny, and I just didn't have the heart to rewrite it. (Seriously. Jim-Bob.)**

**Thanks for continuing to stick with me! This is a long freaking story!**

**— M**


	55. Chapter Fifty-Four

"What's your favorite color? How'd you get your hair so light? Do you know how to play the piano? I know how to play the piano. Have you ever been to Kenilworth? Do you know The Sick Note? A guy drops bricks on himself. Wouldn't that hurt? It's my favorite song. Dad sang it to me. Do you have a favorite song? Does your dad sing? No. Never mind. Mum said I shouldn't talk to you about your dad. I can talk to you about my dad, though. Did you know he's your godfather? That means he's like your uncle. I don't have any uncles. Mum said if Sofia or Ellie ever had a baby I would be its uncle."

"Let him be, Bast," Hermione said gently, tying her robe tightly around her waist. Malfoy looked more unkempt than she'd ever seen him, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he hadn't slept a wink. From the smell of him, he was likely hungover in addition to exhausted. "You'll have plenty of time to question him when he wakes up properly."

"Mum—" Bast started to whine, but Sofia cut him off, jumping up from where she'd been crouched with Ellie, watching Malfoy where he sat.

"I want to knock for breakfast!"

"It's _my_ turn," Bast insisted.

"_I_ will do it," Hermione said, cutting the argument off before it got going. Two quick raps of her knuckles on the table called for breakfast from the elves, and the order was quickly filled. Fruit and warm toast, a steaming pot of tea, eggs and bacon and sausage links.

"Do I have a godfather, Mum?" Bast asked, settling into his chair and handing Sofia a piece of toast.

"You have a namesake," Hermione said.

"Uncle Hagrid," Bast said, grinning around a mouthful of cubed watermelon. He knew enough to chew and swallow before he spoke (with some indirect reinforcement lately listening to her chastise Ron about it). He turned to Malfoy, eyebrows raised. "Do you know Hagrid?"

"… Yes?"

"I'm named after him. I'm his namesake, like Dad's your godfather."

"Oh."

"Uh-huh. He's neat. He showed me this worm-looking thing the other day. It was cool."

"It was _gross_," Sofia put in. Sebastian ignored her.

"And he had the world's biggest spider for a pet."

"Named it Aragog," Ellie said, nodding wisely before most of her face disappeared behind her goblet of pumpkin juice.

"Right, Aragog. He had a picture from when Aragog was just a baby. He was the size of a dog."

Malfoy looked at Hermione helplessly, utterly stymied in the face of the chatterbox children. She almost smirked at him—her lips definitely twitched. She still wasn't sure how she felt about Malfoy. She felt bad for him; he'd had a crap situation these last few years, just like the rest of them. What bothered her was their early history. He'd been the first person to call her a Mudblood, after all.

Now he was just a teenager with nobody else to help him. Just Severus. And, because he had Severus, her. Sort of.

It was an even stranger situation than her friendship with Harry and Ron these days.

"What are you up to today, Bast?" Hermione asked, distracting her son from the acromantula. (She'd decided not to worry about the things Hagrid told Bast or showed him; she'd made it clear there would be no magical creatures coming to live with them in the Governors' suite, and she just hoped that would be that.)

"Slugs!"

"_Pumpkins_," Sofia corrected.

"There's slugs on Mr. Hagrid's pumpkins," Ellie clarified.

"I see," Hermione said, nodding sagely.

* * *

Severus walked out of his bedroom and into one of the oddest breakfasts he'd ever exerienced.

Bast and Sofia seemed to be arging for the sheer joy of hearing their own voices. Elaine chimed in once and again, usually to clarify points of the argument for her mother. Hermione was eating her breakfast, nodding along and quite obviously trying not to laugh. Draco looked like hell, and Severus walking out of the bedroom in his usual sleep pants and dressing gown didn't appear to help stabilize his mental fortitude.

"G'morning, Dad!" the children chimed as one, seamlessly diving back into their conversation.

"Morning," Hermione said more sedately, smirking at him over the rim of her mug in a very self-satisfied sort of way. He liked that smirk.

"How long have they been at it?"

"Not long."

_I think they're showing off for Draco._

He smirked at her thought, helping himself to the eggs and toast.

Breakfast passed quickly. In no time, the children had dressed and were clamoring to get down to Hagrid's, breakfast had been cleared away, and Draco was chasing his Sober-Up with a hot cup of tea.

"Snapes!" a familiar voice called through the door, quickly followed by the sound of a palm smacking the wood. "I know you're in there! Open up!"

"Who…?" Hermione said, turning to look at him. He didn't fail to notice the way she'd shifted so that she was between the children and the door. Or the way the twins had taken up a position on either side of Bast, not quite touching but close. Draco had gone very still on the sofa, his hand too-casually draped across his lap within easy snatching distance of the pocket where he kept his wand.

"It's Hooch," Severus muttered, and the tension in the room decreased by half. He opened the door just as she was bringing her hand back for another thump.

"Sna—Oh, there you are. Up, then?"

He glowered at her, but the effect was probably significantly lessened by the nearly-fluffly green dressing gown, his morning stubble, and Sofia standing at his hip. She was a quick little thing. She'd gone from one end of the room next to Bast to holding his hand in the doorway in the time it had taken him to open the door.

"Obviously," he said when she didn't seem to be able to proceed without an answer.

"Right. Quidditch! They finished the repairs to the stadium yesterday. The last thing on the list. So today we're having a game."

Sofia squeeled and wrenched on his hand. "Can we go, Dad?" When he didn't answer fast enough, she tilted her head all the way back and stared up at him with huge, inky black eyes. "_Please_?"

How had his parents ever refused him anything when he had those exact same eyes?

"Of course—"

"Brilliant!" Hooch said before he could finish. "I'm claiming the both of you right now. Now I just need another Beater."

"Both of _whom_?" Hermione asked from behind him.

"_Mum_ doesn't play Quidditch," Bast said, laughing.

"Of course not," Hooch said, looking through the doorway and straight at Draco, whose eyebrows shot up. "I've got Malfoy for my Seeker. Severus, here, to fill out my Chasers. Unless you want to be a Beater?"

"Not particularly?"

"It's settled then. Game's at eleven!"

"I don't even have a broom," Severus said, but she was already gone. He looked at Draco.

"Did she just… She wants _me_ to play?"

* * *

All questions of pumpkins and slugs were entirely forgotten. Quidditch was the topic of the morning. The twins followed Severus around, asking about the last time he'd played, the last time he'd flown a broom, if he'd been any good. They only lost interest when Malfoy left the bathroom an old Slytherin practice sweater, turning their questions to him.

By quarter to eleven, even Bast was looking forward to the game. Severus and Malfoy had made a quick trip to the Malfoy house in London to retrieve broomsticks—not the most current models, but neither of them were willing to go to Malfoy Manor for those—and Severus had promised all three children a circuit of the stadium on the broom with him before the game.

It seemed that everybody in the castle had turned out for the game. Hermione wasn't surprised; it was a beautiful day, a cool breeze making the hot sunshine wonderful instead of scorching. They congregated on the pitch near the door to the steps of the staff box, watching the players stretch, listened to them heckle each other.

Her eyes followed Severus. He'd put on jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, but he'd rolled the sleeves up. And he'd tied his hair back into a knob at the back of his head. And he hadn't shaved.

She had half a mind to insist somebody fill his place, stick the kids with Hagrid, and drag her husband back to their suite for the afternoon.

Instead, she kissed him soundly "for luck" when he brought Bast, the last of the riders, back, and herded them up into the box with the rest of the watchers.

The teams were an odd mix of people she remembered from school, a few faces from Order meetings, people she'd never expected to see again, and entirely new faces. Harry was the Seeker for one team, with Ron as his Keeper, Fred and George as Beaters, and Angelina Johnson (dating Fred, apparently), Professor Sinistra and Astoria Greengrass (a fifth year Slytherin) as Chasers. Malfoy was the opposing Seeker, with Oliver Wood (resident of Hogsmeade these days, operating the broomstick and Quidditch shop) as Keeper, Hooch and Emmaline Vance as Beaters, and Severus, Ginny and Arlo Vector (Professor Vector's brother) as Chasers.

"It's King's Rules, everybody," Hooch announced, her voice easily carrying up to the stands. Sofia and Ellie exchanged a look and sat forward, identical grins on their faces. "No referee. No wands."

The balls shot into the air, even the Quaffle. For a moment, Hermione couldn't see a thing. It was a wonder nobody collided in the mess of people as all the Chasers went after the single Quaffle, and Keepers' bats glinted in the sun.

"YES!" Sofia shouted, standing up. "Go, go!"

Severus had the Quaffle, dropping below the main pod of players. He shot off, Ginny following his movement from above. And then Professor Sinistra looped around and shot straight for him on a collision course. Hermione was sure it was a feint; luckily Severus knew what King's Rules meant. He passed the ball to Ginny and swung a barrel-roll at the last minute. Sinistra shot past, cackling gleefully the whole way. The cackle was quickly drowned out when Ginny began shouting at Fred, who had nearly unseated her with a Bludger.

King's Rules, apparently, meant it was a free-for-all. Nearly no rules, absolutely no enforcement. Ron blocked a shot on goal with his face after two Chasers entered the scoring area near the hoops (which had an official Quidditch name that she couldn't remember) and he spat out a tooth; nobody seemed to care. Emmaline Vance, who had always seemed very prim, used her elbows quite a lot. Fred and George had decided that their sister was their target and sent a Bludger her way whenever they could. The twins kept up a constant litany of every foul committed, every rule broken.

Luna had begun the game a spectator, sitting there sweetly holding hands with Neville, but within a half an hour somebody had convinced her to sit in the commentor's box and dictate the game. Or perhaps she'd chosen to do it herself. It was hard to tell with Luna. She sporadically ducked her head so that her enormous lion hat could roar into the magical microphone, pausing game-play on more than one occasion when the players stopped to look for the source of the noise. (Severus took advantage of one such distraction and scored a goal.)

It was possibly the most entertaining game of Quidditch she'd ever watched, and that included the World Cup. Severus and Sinistra seemed to have some sort of old rivalry. Whenever Astoria Greengrass got the Quaffle, her sister screamed encouragement and instruction from the stands (the sisters had stayed at Hogwarts following the Battle, at first because Daphne was recovering from a wall collapsing on her when she was helping a group of first-years to the Room of Requirement, and then because their father was in Ministry holding awaiting his trial). Xenophilius Lovegood was giving commentary on his daughter's commentary to Madam Rosmerta from the village, and she didn't seem to know if she wanted him to shut up or not. Madam Pince was out of the library and shouting her lungs out; she didn't seem to care for the game so much as encouraging the Beaters of both teams to knock somebody off their brooms already.

Two hours in, the twins started talking about Snitchnipping. They were sure Wood had hidden away the Snitch, hoping to give his team time to get a bigger lead.

"Because Uncle Harry's going to get it, obviously," Sofia explained. Hermione wondered when he'd become 'Uncle Harry'—she'd noticed that happening a lot. It was 'Granny Minerva' and 'Auntie Poppy' and 'Uncle Hagrid' and now 'Uncle Harry.' "He's quicker."

Bast had long lost interest in the game. He'd situated himself by Andromeda Tonks and Teddy Luipin, though. Andromeda held the baby on her lap while she watched the game, and Bast amused both himself and the Metamorphmagus, tickling and cooing, and then giggling like mad when Teddy rearranged his features or changed his hair color.

Harry did catch the Snitch, at long last. It was past four in the afternoon. Minerva had long since called for refreshments in the box and—after a dramatic neck-and-neck race for the Snitch that ended up with both Seekers crashing into the base of the Hufflepuff stands, a brief scuffle on the grass, and Harry stumbling away with the Snitch and a bleeding lip—the players descended on the spread with relish.

Severus swept her up in a sweaty hug accompanied by a sloppy kiss. One of the Weasley twins cat-called, and Severus caught him with _Levicorpus_ and let him dangle out over the pitch while he gave her a chaste peck on the cheek, then the same for each of his children. The girls giggled madly.

Eventually, the party spilled out onto the pitch again. Others had joined—Bill and Fleur after they finished work, and the same for Arthur and Molly when Arthur left the Ministry. Mr. Ollivander appeared enthralled by whatever conversation he was having with the Lovegoods. A small contingent of Slytherins—the Greengrass sisters, Blaise Zabini—stood together shooting curious looks at Severus. Neville's grandmother and Professor Slughorn seemed to have some history—not the amusing, flirty sort of history but the buried hatchet that zombifies and crawls out again at the most inopportune moments sort of history—and Flitwick, Sprout and Neville were all desperately trying to make them behave.

The evening ended with enough of Fred and George's fireworks that Aurors arrived to make sure everything was alright. The three Ministry wizards stayed to watch, and Hermione couldn't decide if she was glad to see one of them talking to Harry or not. She wouldn't be surprised if they wanted to recruit him.

Her musing—would it be a good thing for Harry to jump right into the Aurory?—was interrupted by Bill and Fleur announcing their first pregnancy. In the swarming of congratulations and smiles that followed, Hermione found herself pressed to Severus's chest. He smelled the way he had in Australia after they'd spent the day in the garden together—warm, healthy man with and undertone of man-sweat.

"I want one," she told him, not realizing she'd said it out loud until she felt him laugh.

"I will brew the antidote to the contraceptive tomorrow," he promised.

"You don't think it's too soon?"

"Too soon?"

"Too soon after the war. Too soon after everything. We don't even have a place to live, yet."

"We have too many places to live."

"Nothing is settled."

"We managed just fine with Bast."

Hermione laughed, and he pulled away so that he could see her face. She looked up, still smiling. "I was the one who got us started on this conversation, and all of a sudden you're the one convincing me it's a good idea."

"It's a very good idea."

"What do you think the children will think?"

"They'll think it's fairly normal. We're about to have a baby boom, I think. It happened after the last time."

She pulled him down for a kiss. They had a nice, shadowed spot by the stands and most people were distracted by the fireworks and their conversations. It was like they had all the time in the world.

\\\

"This has always been a speciality of Hooch's," Severus said. The party—and it had definitely turned into a party—was going strong around them. "She grabs you and makes you do one thing, and then she turns it into something completely different."

"I think the Weasley twins had more to do with this than Hooch did," Hermione said.

"Oh, she planned it. She knew from the moment she got everybody out here for Quidditch—"

"We'd end up with a massive bonfire on her just-repaired pitch? She seemed pretty alarmed when they lit the thing."

He grumbled something unintelligible and she tucked herself into his side again. They had a good spot, far enough from the fire that it wasn't so hot but near enough that everything around them flickered red and orange. The twins were sprawled nearby on a conjured blanket, sound asleep despite the noise. Bast was closer to the fire with Ron, lighting Weasley Wonder-Works, small fireworks that spat along the grass shooting off colorful sparks and whistling dischordantly.

"Harry and Ginny have been gone for awhile," she observed.

"Well, this is likely the first time her mother hasn't been hovering over them."

Hermione smiled, which broadened when Harry and Ginny reappeared seconds later, both of them flushed (though the firelight made it difficult to spot) and looking rather pleased with themselves. They were holding hands.

"It's sweet," she said.

"Sweet?" Severus said, almost mocking. "Do you know how many students I've had to break up from under the stands over the years? It's disgusting—not the couples, the location. Grimy, smelly…"

"I wouldn't know."

"Are you implying you're nostalgic for some clichéd tryst—"

"Hell no. I'm too old for that shit. You can just take me to bed like a proper husband when we get home."

"Yes, dear."


	56. Chapter Fifty-Five

It was almost midnight when they carried the girls back into the castle. They'd hardly stirred when they'd scooped them off the blanket, shushing and soothing. They were getting too big for this, especially for Hermione—the girls were going to be tall like Severus, no doubt.

Bast was too wound up. He danced around them, jogging ahead to look at the most random things, telling them stories about his afternoons with Hagrid.

"Okay, Bast, go brush your teeth," Hermione said quietly when they reached their rooms, stroking Sofia's hair.

"But you're not going to make _them _brush their teeth," Bast whined.

"Do as your mother says."

And just like that, with only a quiet huff of breath in protest, Bast went to brush his teeth without complaining.

_Completely not fair._

Severus just smirked at her.

Hermione went into the bedroom first. It was large—not big like the headmaster's chambers, but larger than teachers' rooms—but it hadn't been meant for a family. They'd divided the overlarge bed into three, leaving a tiny gap between each and the walls. Everything was soft, and there was an excellent view of the village out the wall of windows.

The girls were floppy with sleep, making it difficult to get them into pajamas. Hermione almost woke Sofia, breaking down into giggles when the girl slumped down at an unnatural angle, looking like she might fall off the bed, purple cotton nightgown on one arm and tangled in her curls. Severus had an easier time with Ellie, but that was probably because she wasn't quite as wiggly as Sofia in sleep.

They'd just finished with the girls when Bast dragged his feet into the bedroom. He had the bed nearest the door, and he flopped down onto it without a word, rolling and kicking until he'd managed to line himself up properly on the mattress and knock most of the covers down onto the floor.

_Exhausted_, Severus thought to her, smirking as he pulled the sheet up over Bast.

It was a ridiculously domestic sight that made her want to cry a little bit. Severus looked so content doing it, and Bast was the picture of a little boy tired out after a perfect summer day. She'd dreamed of this when they'd been hunting Horcruxes. Yearned for it.

Severus held out his hand to her and led her out of the room when she took it. Draco had been sleeping on the couch in the small living space that was the next room, but he hadn't returned from the pitch yet.

When the door closed on the children, Severus drew her close and kissed her, lips sliding across hers, tongue probing her mouth. She tangled her hands in his hair, twisting, holding tight.

"I'm going to brew that antidote first thing in the morning," he murmured against her lips, pressing a kiss to her temple before pulling her tight against his chest and holding her.

\\\

Hermione woke with a jerk. She'd had one of those awful falling dreams—not a nightmare, but obnoxious in that she always woke with her heart pounding and cold sweat on her forehead.

She groaned, rolling over, a hand reaching for her husband, but he wasn't there. She opened her eyes and looked around, but the room was dark as pitch since there wasn't a window.

"Severus?"

She Summoned her pocke twatch and checked it by the light of her wand; it was still very early. The watch went in her dressing gown pocket, and she crept from the bedroom. The childrens' door was closed. Malfoy was asleep on the couch still in his Quidditch things.

_That man is happiest when he has a baby on his shoulder and another in my belly_, she thought, rolling her eyes. She tied her dressing gown closed and cast a detection spell on the childrens' door before the left their room. Severus would be down in the dungeon making use of the Potions classrooms.

"You couldn't wait until a more normal hour for this?" she asked when she found him. He hadn't gone to the Potions classroom, but the small brewing room reserved for seventh year projects. "It's freezing down here, Sev."

"_I_ wore shoes," he said, raising an eyebrow at her. She smirked and shrugged, conjuring herself a stool to sit on while she watched him work.

They were quiet for a long time. Severus moved from step to step, stirring and adding ingredients with little pauses between for counting or checking, and Hermione just watched him. He was very good at what he did. He looked a little bit ridiculous—dressing gown and sleep pants with his boots untied around his ankles—but there was no doubting his mastery of his task.

"I couldn't sleep," he said when there was a pause in the process. He turned to face her, putting a wayward curl behind her ear. "I figured I might as well come down here."

"You could've woken me."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're just as tired as I am."

"I don't like waking up to an empty bed," she said, mock-pouting.

"Don't try that," he said, eyes dancing with humor. "I was giving you a lie-in and you know it."

Hermione shrugged, smirking at his back when he had to return his attention to the potion.

"Are you almost finished?"

"Three—two—one…" He flicked his wand, turning off the burner beneath the cauldron, a tiny thing with gleaming silver sides and a pewter base. "It just needs to cool for a few minutes. It won't be long."

"And then: Jim-Bob."

"You keep that up and the children might hear you, and then I'll end up naming my son _James_," Severus said, pretending to shudder. He stepped in close and began running his fingers through her curls.

"James Robert Snape," Hermione said, shaking her head to get her hair behind her shoulders. "It does have a ring to it—"

Severus tugged on a hank of hair, not entirely gently. She grinned cheekily at him. He used his grip on her hair to tip her face up to his for a kiss.

* * *

"_Really_, Uncle," Draco said when they made their way back to the rooms. The boy was still damp from the shower. "Getting your kinks out while you're still in the castle? That's what you have a bedroom for, you know."

"That's quite enough out of you," Severus said, but he was glad Draco felt comfortable enough to rib them a bit. The Quidditch had done more for the boy that weeks of _talking_ about things could ever have done.

"Good morning, Malfoy," Hermione said primly. She had love bites speckled across her neck and collar bones, just barely visible between her hair and dressing gown. Severus fought an odd desire to twist her hair up the way she did, holding it in place with a quill or something. He liked to see his marks on her. It was probably because he was a possessive bastard like that.

"Gra—er. Good morning."

"I think you'd better just call me Hermione. It hasn't been Granger in awhile, and 'Aunt' is entirely out of the question."

Draco looked horrified, likely because the only aunt he'd ever known was Bellatrix.

"Right."

"Speaking of aunts," Severus said, earning himself a wary look from his godson, "did you meet Andromeda Tonks yesterday?"

"The one with the Metamorphmagus baby?"

"Yes."

"I saw her. I didn't speak to her."

"She is your mother's sister as well. The Black family black sheep. Now, of course, she's all that's left of the Blacks apart from Narcissa."

"And I'm supposed to, what? Apologize for past grievances?"

"No. I just thought you ought to know that not all your family is in Azkaban."

"_You_ aren't in Azkaban, Uncle."

_That's so sweet_, Hermione thought to him, handing him a cup of tea. He rolled his eyes at her.

\\\

Later that afternoon, the loose Death Eaters made their sixth attack. It was more of a threat than an attack, of course—more glowing graffiti, another Dark Mark.

"We can't stay here," Severus said, glancing up at the ceiling of the Great Hall just like everybody else was doing. The Dark Mark had been easy enough to get rid of, but the words—"YOU CAN'T HIDE FOREVER"—had yet to fade, and any attempts the Aurors had made only made them glow brighter.

"They attacked the castle to get us to say that," Hermione said. She was holding Teddy so that Andromeda could eat dinner with both hands, and expertly flicked her hair behind her shoulders when the baby made a grab for it.

"I want to draw them out, make a spectacle of it, _end_ it." He stabbed his roast more forcefully than necessary.

"We decided we were done fighting."

"It won't be so very long before there are students here, Hermione," he reminded her when he'd finished chewing. The food was very good—as it always was—but it barely registered. Hell, he'd barely paid attention to anything but the taunting words on the ceiling the whole meal. He certainly didn't know why Andromeda and the baby were in the building, nor the Weasley twins or Hestia Jones.

"The Aurors can handle it."

_The Aurors can barely handle their own cocks._

_That's rather sexist, don't you think?_

Severus shoved his plate away, knocking it into the platter of boiled potatoes, which knocked his pumpkin juice over. The clank of it startled the baby, and he began to cry. Hermione gave him an annoyed look, handed him the crying thing, and took her wand out of her sleeve to clear the mess.

"Hush now," Severus murmured. "It wasn't that bad."

Her point was quite clear, of course. First off—and most obviously—his moment of petulance had made the baby cry, it was his job to fix it; and secondly, they had to think of the children. They couldn't run out and wave their arms and start a fight; if something happened to them, Bast, Sofia and Ellie could wind up orphaned like Teddy.

Or maybe she'd just wanted him to hold the baby while she cleaned up the mess. He was very good at over-thinking her motivations.

Teddy quieted when Severus started humming as he thought.

They couldn't move to any of the Prince houses. They'd briefly visited the family townhouse in London, discovering more similarities to Grimmauld Place before the Order had cleaned it than to the Malfoy family's London house. It had been layered with unpleasant things, the least of them being a few grouchy paintings and hexed doorframes. They couldn't bring the children to a place like that.

The next obvious thought was one of the Order safe houses. Unfortunately, a list of the houses had been turned over to the Wizengamot during the hearing, evidence against whichever Death Eater it had been to track a ward off Grimmauld Place using Dumbledore's—the Dark Lord's—wand. (It had been that system that had forced Hermione to camp, since the primary layer of protection had come from Dumbledore—it had just been lucky Jones and Diggle had been at Jones' country house with Potter's relatives).

There was the land at Spinner's End, now host to the charred remains of the house but that was easy enough to fix. It would be difficult to build anything in the Muggle neighborhood with the threat hanging over them, though.

There was nothing for it; they'd either have to make a point of looking at the rest of the Prince properties and hoping one of them would suit, or they'd have to rent something in a Muggle neighborhood and ward the hell out of it. When he turned to share the thought with Hermione, he found that she'd started on her pudding, a thoughtful look on her face, and most of the rest of the table was staring at them.

"What?" he snapped, patting Teddy's back when he squirmed a bit to protest the end of the humming. Small children always liked the feel of the humming when he held them close, the comfortable vibration of another voice.

* * *

"I need you to come with us tonight."

"What? Where?" _That's a horrible idea; stay behind wards_.

"Harry has it in his head that we should go down to the Three Broomsticks—"

"Absolutely not!"

"Yeah," Ron said, grabbing her arm like she might have been about to dash off and yell at Harry, "I know. That's why I said you should come along."

"Because I'm the party pooper?"

"The party what?"

"Nevermind."

"Right." He let go of her arm and ran his hands through his hair. "Anyway. You need to come with us. I think we'll end up in some Muggle pub or something; we should take him out, just…"

"_Not_ the Three Broomsticks."

"Exactly."

She looked him over, wondering what he was playing at. She'd had all of three conversations with Ron since the Battle of Hogwarts. First, at the Burrow over brunch some morning when he'd pestered her for the full story of breaking into Gringotts. Second, at Hogwarts when he'd spent some time with Bast and asked her questions about her children. And finally, on the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts when he'd told her that he'd had a long talk with a representative from the Aurory about career goals.

And now they were back to managing Harry's impulses like it was fifth year all over again.

"You think he's trying to draw the Death Eaters out," Hermione guessed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Ron glanced away but nodded.

"He's feeling useless."

"Hasn't he done enough?"

"It's not like he's going to stop wanting to save the world just because You-Know—_Voldemort_'s dead."

Hermione's lips twitched half a smile at his reflexive use of 'You-Know-Who,' but then frowned again. Ron was right, of course. She wasn't sure if that actually meant anything, though.

"He's going to join the Aurors too, isn't he?"

Ron shrugged, hesitated, then nodded. "I think so."

"At least he'll have some proper training, then. And you, too." She mock-scowled at him. "As if you are any better with the saving people thing."

"Hey, I came to talk to you about it before we ran off down to the Three Broomsticks!"

"Well at least you have some sense." She smiled at him.

\\\

"'Neither can live while the other survives,'" Harry muttered, mostly seeming to be talking to his drink.

They'd talked him out of going to the Three Broomsticks, and Hermione had taken them Side-Along to a tiny pub in Edinburgh instead. It was a tiny place that poured out strong drinks to mask the terrible flavor of the food. It was the perfect place for the Chosen One to wax maudlin.

"I think we did it wrong," Harry said, looking balefully across at Hermione and Ron.

"What?" Ron asked, setting aside his empty pint glass and signaling for another.

"Killing him. I _was_ the one the prophecy said would kill him. I didn't. So now his Death Eaters, his ideas, are still around and going after people and stuff." Harry looked from Ron to Hermione and then back down into his drink.

"You have the most ridiculous super hero complex I've ever encountered," Hermione told him, sipping her whiskey and cranberry, and shaking her head at him. "And I'm married to Severus Snape."

"What's _Snape_ got to do with it?" Ron asked, but Harry talked over him.

"A what?"

"Super hero complex. A saving people thing."

"Oh."

She rolled her eyes. "Harry. It's not your fault." Telling him about how Dumbledore had nurtured this reaction since he was eleven wouldn't help anything, so she didn't. "You _did _fulfill your part of the prophecy, I think. You led the whole Horcrux escapade. You destroyed the first one and the last one."

"_You_ got the last one. The snake."

"I meant the one in you. That was the trickiest one."

"And to think all I had to do was fall over."

"Mate, if it was that simple you would've destroyed it your first Quidditch game," Ron said. Harry looked affronted for a moment, then laughed.

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Why won't they bring me a bloody drink?" Ron asked, waving at the bartender again.

"The Notice-Me-Not," Hermione said, flicking her wand under the table to cancel the spell. "Wave at him again and talk football for a bit or something."

"I don't know a thing about football," Ron said, waving elaborately. The bartender nodded and grabbed a pint glass. "_Finally_."

"I never followed it," Harry said. "Neither did Dudley, actually. Big-D."

"That's a stupid nickname," Ron said, grabbing his pint with both hands when it arrived.

"Well. He was big, and his name starts with a 'D,'" Harry said, shrugging. He had a tall glass of Guinness and he took a drink, staring thoughtfully down into it again as he swallowed. "And he was never particularly bright, so maybe that was as much nickname as he could handle."

\\\

Hours later, Hermione saw them safely back to the Burrow and then Flooed to Hogwarts. It had been a relatively quiet evening. A very normal evening. A trio of friends out for drinks, chatting, sorting out their thoughts on life. It wasn't two days later that Harry and Ron enrolled in training to be Aurors. They were splashed across the front page of the _Prophet_ the day after that, and then disappeared off to train "in an undisclosed location"—as if everybody didn't know about the facility unofficially christened "Auror Academy" in Wales that had been churning out Aurors for centuries.

Luckily, Auror Academy would be a very stupid place for the remaining Death Eaters to attack. It was full of seasoned Aurors chosen to train up the new recruits, and new recruits eager to prove themselves.

It was also lucky that Harry wasn't allowed to leave Auror Academy during the work week. Number 13 Grimmauld Place was attacked, ransacked, the day after he enrolled. Nobody was killed—the Muggles were on vacation—but the message was as clear as if they'd left glowing letters behind.

She woke the following morning to find Severus lounging against the headboard next to her, glaring into the dimness.

"You have a plan," she said, because he would have been pacing if he'd still been on edge about what to do.

"I do."

"Well?"

He rolled over, moving so that he was lying next to her. He lit his wand tip between them so that they'd be able to see each other.

"Let's start looking at the Prince properties."

"Everybody knows about the Prince properties."

"But nobody knows which one we'll be at."

"There aren't _that_ many."

"It will buy us time, though." He probably would've shrugged if it had been possible in that position. "You were right the other day: The Aurors will handle it, it will just take time. Meanwhile, I'd like to draw things away from Hogwarts. Enough has already happened here."

"Alright, then."

He kissed the tip of her nose and rolled out of bed. Just over an hour later, they were crossing the line of the wards on the largest of the Prince properties.

It went wrong before they even started.

The front doors were flanked by carved bowmen in recesses not quite deep enough to be called alcoves. They were beautiful carvings, men with Severus's cheekbones and thick beards wearing Anglo Saxon armor, sleek-looking longbows, and quivers ready on their shoulders.

"Oh, look at them," Hermione said as they walked up the short (slightly overgrown) path from the gate.

And then Severus grabbed her around the waist and they crashed to the side of the path. Severus rolled away and started swearing immediately. She looked around for what had made him hit the dirt, and saw the statues. They were no longer serene-looking guardians, but mean-looking warriors. Their bows were up and ready, one of them with an arrow knocked and the other reaching for his quiver. Hermione barely had time to bring up a Shield Charm when the statue loosed its arrow.

Severus kept swearing, now lying very still on his back next to her. He'd taken an arrow through the knee, which explained the statue already reaching for another arrow.

She dragged Severus along, deflecting arrows (the statues were slow to draw, but the arrows came deadly fast—misses buried themselves in the ground to the fletching, and one she deflected broke through a tree limb and sent it crashing into the messy grass), and Apparated them to the Edinburgh flat the moment she'd gotten them past the line of the wards. Hestia Jones, tasked with cleaning out the various safe houses, screamed bloody murder on their arrival.

"Who the fuck sets statues on anybody who walks onto the property?" Severus asked. She figured it was rhetorical and didn't answer, focusing on getting him onto the kitchen table with his leg propped up so she could look at the injury. "What the hell is wrong with—oh, fuck,_ don't touch it_! Leave it be!"

"Severus, I can't 'leave it be,'" she admonished, throwing him a look before gently probing again. He groaned, but held still. "You can't have an arrow in your leg."

She broke off the fletched end of the arrow with a spell and drew it out of his knee. She had enough spells on the area that he wouldn't feel it so much, but his eyes widened with horror to see it.

"You still want to look at the Prince properties?" she asked him as she went about patching him up. He narrowed his eyes at her, pursed his lips, and didn't say anything.


	57. Chapter Fifty-Six

The Orders of Merlin arrived one morning, entirely without pomp or circumstance. Two simple packages in brown paper tied up with twine. Inside, two identical letters thanking them for "acts of valor" and their contributions to the "returning of the peace."

"Well that's fitting," Severus said, not quite sarcastically. Hermione shrugged.

"Would you really want to go to something so ridiculous as a ball? Put on dress robes, smile at all the people…" She leaned back against him, looking down at their entwined hands, tracing the curve between his index finger and thumb with her fingertip. "It _would_ be nice to dance with you."

"We could dance anytime you like," he said, his voice a soft murmur in her ear.

"I was thinking of that last Christmas party of Slughorn's, actually," she admitted. She could practically feel him roll his eyes at the thought. She squeezed his hand. "I wanted to dance with you then. And you were angry with me—do you remember?"

"I walked in and the first thing I saw was that idiot McLaggen going at you under the mistletoe."

"I was talking to some man whose name I couldn't remember," she said, beginning to trace the curve of his hand again. "It would be nice to have a second go of it."

"I was a jealous idiot that night."

"_My_ jealous idiot."

He chuckled into her hair, stilling her tracing finger and bringing the hand to his lips.

\\\

A bit of research had revealed that the statues at Prince Manor had attacked her because she wasn't a Prince by blood nor had she been added to the wards by a Prince by blood. Severus remedied that quickly enough, suffering through endless ribbing from Minerva about him gallantly throwing himself at his wife when she was in danger. It was easier to laugh when the statues weren't shooting at anybody.

The Manor, despite being the latest property that had actually been lived in, was not an appropriate place to raise a family. The statues at the door were the gentlest of the enchanted objects, as they were meant to protect. Most of the rest were just for the amusement of those who knew what they did—the Princes seemed to be the sort of people who hexed their teacups for the entertainment of watching their guests squirm when they failed to detect the danger.

The next three properties were almost as bad, though neither of them managed to injure themselves in the exploration.

The fifth property on the list was a mess. It was a small old Georgian house plonked in the middle of a large plot in the middle of nowhere, Scotland. The nearest patch of civilization was a tiny Muggle village that consisted of a petrol station, an old ruin of a church, and a pub where the local famers spent their evenings.

It was perfect.

The front was overgrown with wisteria (or ivy or some other non-magic vine plant that had been left to its own devices too long), most of the windows were broken, and there was an oak tree growing straight through the curved iron framework that had once been a conservatory, but the bones of the house were in good condition. It was more of a cottage done in the Georgian style than a proper Georgian manor house, but that was exactly what they needed—none of the empty rooms like they'd had in Australia.

"This was probably a dining room," Severus said, standing in the room at the front of the house next to the stairs. It had a fantastic bay window overlooking the grassy terrace. "We could turn it into a library, of course. The walls over here between the kitchen and—what was this, the sitting room?—are already gone. An open floor plan. We could put a table here. We'll spend more time in the library than the sitting room anyway."

"It's falling apart, Severus."

"Four bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms," Severus said, reading it off the property description that had been in the inventory of his inheritance. "It's old, so it's probably a good thing the walls are falling apart. It will be easier to fix the plumbing that way."

"You really want to undertake a project like this when there are Death Eaters after us?"

"They won't come looking at a place like this."

"Because it's a ruin, Severus," she said, but her lips had twitched into half a smile and they both knew he'd won. "It's _already_ a death trap."

Ironically, that was the day the loose Death Eaters were finally captured. The strangest part—for the Snapes, at least—was that they read about it in the paper instead of participating.

The headline was, "_It's over," Minister declares: last Death Eaters finally in custody_. The story was remarkably detailed, but that was probably because the conclusive attack had taken place in Diagon Alley within easy view of the _Prophet_'s office.

At noon, when Hermione and Severus had been picking their way through the layers of dirt and dead leaves in the master bedroom, the remaining Death Eaters had Apparated to the street outside Weasley Wizard Wheezes. The _Prophet_ speculated as to whether that location had more to do with the twins' steadfastly upbeat and cheerful store even through the worst of the war, or if they'd somehow known that Harry and Ron had been spending their release weekends above the shop with the twins.

In any case, the Death Eaters had arrived en masse in full Death Eater regalia—dark robes, masks; there were more than a few pictures in the paper—and attacked the shop. It was their boldest attack yet. Unfortunately for them, Fred and George had long ago warded the hell out of their shop, not only because they knew they were targets but because they did a lot of research and experimentation as they developed new products, and they hadn't wanted a mistake to blow a hole in the street outside the shop.

There were two immediate casualties—Rabastan Lestrange and Luna Lovegood.

Lestrange, it would later come out, had been the leader of the remaining Death Eaters, and he'd been standing closest to the place where the spells had impacted the shop's wards. He'd been caught in the backlash, thrown across the street into a brick wall. He'd broken a dozen bones, including his skull and two vertebrae, from the physical impact alone. The spell backlash had burned away his eyebrows, fused his joints, and called up bulbous green pustules inside his lungs and on the sole of his left foot.

Luna had been exiting the shop with her father at the moment of the attack. She'd been a step ahead of her father, and thus had been just outside the wards when the Death Eaters attacked. The explosion of spells against wards blew her back into the shop, but she was lucky in that it was the Killing Curse that ended her life. She never felt the shelving unit she'd been blasted back into fall on her, didn't feel when one of its posts broke and speared through her kidney.

Mr. Lovegood was blasted back into the same shelving unit. He was rushed to St. Mungo's the moment the fighting was over.

Harry, Ron, Fred and George leapt down the stairs, throwing themselves out the shop door. By all accounts, it had been madness in the street. Shoppers Disapparated right and left, shopkeepers slammed their doors or ran out to try to help. Aurors rushed in—patrols had been tripled since the attacks had begun.

The _Prophet _claimed that the fight had lasted nearly an hour, but Harry said it was maybe ten minutes. He and Ron would probably receive accolades for their part in the fight.

George ended up in St. Mungo's overnight, though it was only for observation. He escaped his room and sat with Mr. Lovegood. He was there in the wee hours of the morning when the older wizard died from his injuries.

A Death Eater named Clarence Burke died overnight as well. His identity had been a surprise—everybody had assumed the pudgy younger man, a cousin of the Burke at Borgin &amp; Burke's, had been a casualty of the war, one of many taken from his home in the night and never seen again; nobody had known he'd been a Death Eater.

The Order gathered at Grimmauld Place within an hour after the delivery of the _Prophet_'s special evening edition. Nobody had called a meeting, but most had come anyway. Fred and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were at St. Mungo's with George. Harry, Ron, Hill and the other Aurors were clearing up at Diagon Alley or making their reports at the Ministry.

Nobody knew quite what to say.

\\\

Two days passed. It was a Saturday. There had been no attacks. The Death Eaters had been securely locked away in the bowels of the Ministry and questioned under Veritaserum—they were the last. It truly was over. Perhaps there were still sympathizers out there, but the likelihood of those old-fashioned bigots suddenly deciding to rain mayhem on the unsuspecting populace was minimal.

By luck or divine providence, Hogsmeade completed its repairs that Saturday. It was a weekend; it was the first time in too long that they weren't afraid. Much like the evening on the Quidditch pitch after Hogwarts completed repairs, they celebrated.

Music filled the streets, and dancers. Rosmerta and Aberforth and even Madam Pudifoot herself lined the walks outside their establishments with tables full of food and drinks. There were bonfires in the large open areas off the road. Zonko began setting off fireworks from his roof at dusk, quickly escalating when Fred and George set themselves up on the roof of the Shrieking Shack and began setting of their own pyrotechnics.

The only damper on the evening was that Harry had finally realized that she'd known when and how Black would die, and he wasn't speaking to her. The highlight was witnessing Rosmerta dump a pint of ale over a reporter's head when he tried to get her to talk about "that horrible Headmaster Snape character."

They left well before the village's festivities died down. The children were asleep on their feet, and the atmosphere was quickly devolving into dirty drinking songs and couples seeking out dark corners for more private celebrations.

When the children were in bed, they found a dark corner of their own.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, yes. It's horribly short. I'm sorry. We're looking at one more chapter and then the epilogue (which will possibly be two chapters long; I'm still writing it so I don't know what the final product will look like...), and this was the best stopping-point. Writing the end of this thing is more than a little bit bittersweet.**

** —M**

**P.S. Mashakas is fantastic and has begun translating this monster of a story into Russian! fanfics dot me/index dot php?section=3&amp;id=79686**


	58. Chapter Fifty-Seven

Hermione woke slowly, thinking at first that she was still dreaming. She'd fallen asleep, sprawled gracelessly across the bed, after spending the morning with the house elves—all eleven of them and she _really_ didn't like thinking about it—cleaning the debris out of the cottage so that they could begin to rebuild.

She remembered toeing off her boots and lying across the foot of the bed, but he'd pulled her hips to the edge of the bed and positioned her legs over his shoulders.

Her fingers found his hair, tangling in the fine strands of it as she moaned. She was awake now, riding the rolls of building pleasure that grew with each pass of his tongue.

A long finger joined his tongue, dipping inside her, probing, flicking along those sensitive places. His nose rubbed between her folds as his lips closed just there, sucking gently. The world exploded; her eyelids fluttered.

When she could think again, he was still kneeling there between her legs. His chin was shy with her fluid, but that didn't stop her from leaning forward and dropping her feet to the floor on either side of him so that she could kiss him. His mouth taste vaguely of the tea he liked, but mostly of her own muskiness. His tongue probed her mouth the way it had probed her cunt, sending her shivering all over again. She was dripping.

"Hi," she said between kisses. He smiled against her lips, a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest. That rumble was something to die for. It vibrated through his skin and into hers, reaching in and attaching to the most feminine parts of her, making her blood rush through her veins even faster, if that was possible.

"Hi," he murmured, his lips trailing down her neck, tongue teasing the sensitive spot just below her ear, nibbling along her collarbone. She arched into him, chest pressing into is. He took it for the invitation it was, running his hands up along her sides, exploring her ribs with his fingertips until his thumbs found her nipples. They were already pebbled.

Hermione gasped, leaning into him. He unbuttoned her shirt and let it fall off the bed, then tossed her bra down on top of it and sucked a nipple into his mouth. His tongue swirled, teeth grazing ever so slightly. If he kept up like that she would come again before he was even inside her. It was like there was a direct line between the nipple and her clitoris, and she moaned. He grunted, hips twitching. He tore little gasps and moans from her, making her head fall back as he suckled.

He moaned against her, nipple now caught between his teeth. She shivered with her full body, and he released the nipple to smile up at her.

"Impossible man," she said, though it was so breathy that any implied insult was lost.

He ignored the comment, fingers teasing along the waist of her skirt before he pulled it down over her legs. He'd removed her knickers while she was sleeping. When she was spread naked above him, he sat back on his heels and looked at her. Nobody looked at her like that except for him, and it was intoxicating.

He sat forward, rising up to lick around the other nipple, nipping gently at the underside of her breast. She gasped when he blew on the wetness his tongue had left behind, and then he slipped his fingers inside her. One, and then another sliding in entirely without resistance, his thumb finding her clitoris. Rubbing gently. In and out, a rub, a hard suck at her breast. She screamed wordless release as her climax tore through her again.

She lay back bonelessly, breathing hard. This man. This man with his talented tongue and his long fingers.

When she remembered how to move, Hermione rolled on her side to face him where he'd lay down beside her on the bed. She tipped his mouth to her with a finger under his chin. She wondered how he could stand to draw out his own release like this; she went liquid all over again with a simple kiss.

He grinned against her lips when she rolled them over so that she could straddle his thighs. He groaned when she began to undo his belt, teasing his erection through his jeans as she did. She got the belt undone, the zipper down, and he surged forward, catching her mouth with his again. She kissed him back, but was more concerned with his clothes. The shirt had to go; she wanted his skin against hers.

She pulled his shirt over his head and brushed her fingertips down his chest, sucking gently on her favorite spot on his neck right next to the collarbone, below the scars left by the snake. His hips jerked beneath her, and he groaned long and low.

"Please," he whispered, gasping into her hair. If she hadn't already been soaked, that would have done it.

She left off his neck, focusing down, yanking jeans and underwear away, crouching to one side so that he could lift his hips and get his clothes clear. There was a moment of clarity between them. He was propped up on his elbows laying back on the bed, hair standing up every which way, mouth and chin still shiny with her juices, cock standing up between his legs with the tip weeping. She was on her knees beside him, breasts heaving with each breath like a bad romance novel, her hair a frizzed mess.

He reached for her, tracing a fingertip along her jaw. Her nipples hardened all over again at the touch, and her eyelids fluttered shut with the pleasure of it. _This man_.

"What do you do to me?" she asked. It was rhetorical, of course, be he answered anyway.

"Whatever I want." They shared a wicked grin.

"I hope so."

He pulled her forward, down onto him, her breasts soft against his chest, his cock hard against her thigh. She kissed and licked her way across his jaw, nipping here and there for the reactive jump of his cock.

"Hermione," he growled. It was almost a warning, but it just made her grin.

She lifted up, bringing her legs around so that she was straddling him again. He used one hand to steady her hip, the other to angle his cock between them, sliding home as she lowered herself. A loud keening noise escaped her throat, breaking off in a happy grunt. His head thumped back against the bed softly, his breath harsh before he gave in to a groan too.

"Fuck, witch," he said, putting his other hand on her hip and pulling her down so that she could feel the press of his pubic bone against her clit. Hermione gasped, head falling forward. She bit his shoulder a little, trying to get herself under control. No matter how many times they did this, he could always bring her to the farthest reaches of sensation. The fullness, the very physical need to move, the desire for friction, the bursting red-hot want of him.

She hummed in response to whatever he had said, and moved her legs around until she found some leverage to lift herself a bit. He helped, rocking his hips, using his hands to direct her. Pure, delicious motion. In and out, up and down. The pressure built and built.

"Ah," she gasped, but it wasn't enough. She wanted him deeper but her hips didn't stretch that far, bent as they were already. "Severus."

He moved, pulling out and rolling forward. She hissed at the absence of him, but let him move them around.

He spun her around to face away from him, dipped his fingers in to wet them, then eased the way from behind. She moaned, leaning forward with her arms braced, knees spread wide. He reared up behind her, thrusting home again from the new angle. He put his hands on her hips again, pulling her ass back into him so that he could thrust up and in. She was breathing in time with his thrusts.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, yes, yes—Severus!"

Severus groaned, finally allowing himself to come. He burst inside her, a rush of warmth that crawled up deep within her. Her nipples ached in the best way; she felt as though every inch of her vibrated with her heartbeat.

He reached around her, sliding his hand between her legs, and that was all it took before she followed him over the edge. She collapsed forward onto the bed, the fabric of the bedspread scratching deliciously at her nipples.

Severus pulled her to his chest after a moment, stretching out with her. He was pink and shimmering with sweat, scars standing out white and shiny. She pressed her body to his side, bringing her lips to the nearest nipple and teasing it with tongue and teeth. He gasped, but didn't do anything to stop her. Her hand found its way down, tracing the lines of his cock with her fingertips until she felt him begin to rise again.

She left off his nipple, smiling at him as she crawled down his body. She kissed her way down Severus's belly, fingers tickling the dark thatch of hair. Licking down the length of him, sucking gently at the tip. Fingertips massaging his balls as she nipped at him, watched him swell to full erection again. The smell of him was intoxicating—pure man musk, going straight to her head and then _down_ from there.

She started small, a little bit at a time, teasing. He tried to wait her out, groaning and flexing under her, fists balling up the bedspread. He never could, though. Before long, his hands were in her hair, urging her on, guiding her head. She smiled.

Finally, she planted her hands on his hips and swallowed him in. It wasn't comfortable, but that didn't matter much. He convulsed, knees jerking, hips twitching. He wasn't in control, and it was delicious.

He came again, this time it rushed down her throat. She swallowed it down, licking all around after he finished to be sure she'd gotten it all. She liked the taste of him.

"Hermione," he groaned again, lying back as if his bones were made of mush. Still smiling, she crawled up to lay on his chest, licking her lips because she knew it would drive him mad. She was wet and wanting again, and he had better know it.

They lay there for a moment, panting slightly. He looked like he was torn between drifting off to sleep and ravishing her. She kissed the side of his neck just beneath his jaw, smirking down at him, and tucked herself into his side.

They were quiet for so long that Hermione was almost sure he'd gone to sleep. Then Severus twined his fingers with hers and guided her hand down to his cock. They stroked him together, caressing and bringing him up. They were both breathing hard.

"You must've taken something before you woke me," she said, smirking against his neck when he twisted them around so that she lay beneath him. He only smirked back at her, spreading her legs. She obediently looped her ankles around his hips as he moved forward.

He leaned over her, first sinking into her and then pressing their stomachs and chests together, lowering down until his face was over hers, breathing the same air. He braced his elbows on either side of her head and stared right into her eyes as he began to move.

She shuddered, squeezing him deliberately with inner muscles. He closed his eyes momentarily, and when he opened them again they were blazing. She smiled up and him and did it again, rolling her hips as she did. He gasped and picked up his pace, pounding into her now. She dragged her nails down his back, fueling his fervor. They both came after only a few more thrusts, screaming.

There was no question after that; they both fell asleep.

* * *

Severus woke to the sound of his wife screaming. He jerked upright, shoving her behind him, blinking confusedly because she'd already stopped shouting. His foot was tangled in the blankets, making his twist awkwardly around her. She started laughing.

"Wha?" he managed, trying to see through the dark of their bedroom.

"You're a bloody Neanderthal," Hermione said, laughing. She writhed behind him for a moment until she was out from under him. He let himself flop back onto the bed, glaring at her.

"You screamed."

"I was startled."

"By what?"

"Whom," she said in that prim way she did when she was correcting him in order to get on his nerves. He rolled his eyes.

"By _whom_?"

"Thorpe."

"Thorpe is sorry, sir! Mistress!"

Hermione lit her wand tip, and Severus turned to look over the side of the bed closest to where Hermione had been sleeping. Thorpe stood beside the bed wringing her ears, overlarge swamp-green eyes bulging nervously.

"What were you even doing?" Hermione asked, grabbing the nearest item of clothing, one of his t-shirts, and pulling it on. "You scared the life out of me."

"I didn't! I didn't, Mistress. I promise! That is what Thorpe was checking."

Severus blinked. The proud terror chased through him like it had done twice before. That sensation that made him want to lock Hermione in a nice, cozy suite of rooms where nothing could get at her for nine months or so, and also made him want to bring her with him everywhere to show off their impending arrival to everybody he knew.

"Next time, _tell_ me before you do any checking, Thorpe."

"Yes, Mistress! I'm sorry, Mistress. Thorpe will slam her fingers twice in the door!"

"Don't do that," Hermione snapped.

"But Mistress—"

"I said don't do it, so don't do it."

"Yes, Mistress."

"And _you_," Hermione said, turning to point her finger at him now. "Stop smiling like an idiot."

Severus scowled at her. He hadn't noticed that he was smiling.

Hermione breezed out of the room, letting the door snap shut behind her. Severus let himself smile again.

"How far along, Thorpe?" he asked the elf, turning to look at her. She stood where Hermione had left her, wringing her hands now instead of her ears.

"Weeks, sir," Thorpe said. "Don't know how many. Thorpe didn't finish because the mistress woke up!"

"That's fine, Thorpe." Then he added, "Thank you," because Hermione would like that. Thorpe bobbed something that could have been a bow or a curtsy (or possibly she just lost her balance for a moment at the novelty of being thanked) and disappeared.

\\\

August passed in a flash.

Draco moved in to the Malfoys' London house, gladly leaving the Manor to the Aurors after he retrieved his broomstick and some clothes. He Flooed often with questions about becoming a Healer, always writing to Severus though it was Hermione who answered the questions.

By the end of the month, the cottage was habitable, and they moved in. It was bare bones, plaster still drying on the walls, but the students were due to arrive at the castle and Severus certainly didn't want to be around for that. A clean break, a fresh start for the students; it was necessary.

"Which one's the bedroom?" Bast asked, and it broke Severus's heart a little.

"You can each have your own room, if you want," Hermione said, leading the way up the stairs. Severus stayed at the bottom for a moment, wondering if he'd failed as a father by putting his son in a position to ask that question. What the hell business did he have bringing somebody into the world if…?

"Come _on_, Dad!" Bast shouted down the stairs, half hanging off the railing as he looked over from the landing above. "There are almost as many rooms here as there were in Kenilworth!"

Just like that, the weight was gone.

_How the hell does he do that?_

He followed his family up the stairs. The landing was airy, with a big window at the top of the stairs. It looked out over the front of the house, the terrace that they'd left grassy and the beautiful stone steps that led to further grassy yard. There was nothing but Scottish moors as far as the eye could see.

The twins were insisting on sharing a room. The Weasley twins had spun tales of bunk beds, and the girls were enamored of the idea. Bast had half a mind to share a room with the girls until he realized he'd be right across the hall.

"So is this your room? Or is this your room?" Bast asked, running from one room at the back of the house to the other.

"This one," Hermione said, stepping into the master suite. They'd yet to do any spellwork on the house, so the room felt small—the room's one window looked out at the tree that had grown through the conservatory and been incorporated into the reconstructed space during reconstruction.

"You can't see anything out the window," Sofia observed.

"We'll fix that once we get settled."

"What's this room for, then?" Ellie asked, standing in the final bedroom. Severus glanced at Hermione, noting that she had a hand resting on her belly. She wasn't showing at all—they'd seen a mediwitch midwife the week before, and she was just six weeks along—but it was the knowing there was another life in there that made her do it. He'd caught himself doing the same when they settled in for sleep.

"What about if we made it a nursery for a little brother or sister?" Severus asked. "What would you think of that?"

Sofia and Elaine glanced at each other like they were considering the question, but Bast just blinked, then asked, "Can it be a brother? I've already got sisters."


	59. Epilogue, Part I

The clerk was nervous. Severus couldn't tell if he was the cause of the nerves or if it was his reason for being in the office. Possibly it was both.

"Two arriving," the door knocker shaped like a bull's head said. The clerk sat up straighter, though Severus wasn't sure how he managed it.

The air crackled, and then his ears popped. Lucius Malfoy and a prison guard whirled into being, the guard holding the chain of the handcuffs that were the Portkey. Malfoy looked about as he had at his trial—ungroomed, unrested, unwell. His hair was a mess and streaked liberally with silver and white. He had had a wash recently; he didn't smell and he didn't have any facial hair. He wore the same gray-green velvet coat he'd had on for his trial, though it was moth-eaten around the edges from improper storage during its owner's incarceration.

Sunken gray eyes darted around the room and finally landed on Severus. Pale eyebrows rose.

"Severus?"

"Lucius."

The guard stepped between them, a ring of keys clanking as he unlocked the handcuffs. A moment later, the guard stepped back and held out Lucius's wand. His hand shook as he took it.

"Sign here," the guard instructed, holding out a quill and pointing to the parchment in front of the clerk. After a quick glance at Severus, Lucius stepped forward and signed.

"You are free to go, M-mister Malfoy," the clerk said.

Severus held the door open, then fell into step—a slow, slightly unsteady pace—as they walked to the elevator.

"Where is—?" Lucius tried, then had to stop to clear his throat. Severus waited until the gate closed them into the elevator before he spoke.

"Your daughter-in-law is in labor, or they would be here," Severus said.

"Daughter…"

"Astoria Greengrass. The younger daughter; she was two years behind Draco at Hogwarts. They reconnected in France a few years ago. They're both Healers. They married almost two years ago now."

"How long was I there?"

Severus pressed his lips together, drawing a chocolate bar from his robe pocket and handing it over. Lucius had spent the first five years of his sentence in maximum security with Dementors as guards. The last two years had been in a mid-level security, several floors away from the Dementors. He'd expected at least some news to reach him.

"Seven years. Draco negotiated your parole."

"He didn't visit."

"He wasn't allowed to. He did petition for visitation." Only in the last few years, after he'd begun seeing Astoria. Severus thought Draco had been punishing his parents by not asking to visit them, a sort of passive aggressive thing against their putting him in the horrible position during the war. They hadn't talked about it, but he thought Astoria might have brought it up. The girl was good like that.

Lucius ate half the chocolate before the elevator reached the lobby. He put it in his pocket, straightening his shoulders like he expected a crowd to be waiting to throw tomatoes at them.

"It's a Tuesday morning," Severus said. "Just a quiet morning at the Ministry."

"There aren't…"

"The world has largely moved on. Your release will be a footnote on page seven at best, and no photo. The big news will be all the births. It's always the births these days." He rolled his eyes.

"Draco's child?"

"Yes. And the Potters just had another last week. All the children from the war are having children. They're talking about splitting classes at Hogwarts a decade from now to accommodate them all."

"You're still at Hogwarts?"

"No. I'm independently wealthy. And it wouldn't have gone over well if I'd stayed at Hogwarts after that last year."

Lucius blinked, looking absolutely lost. Severus took pity on him, taking him by the elbow and Side-Along Apparating him to the cottage. The Malfoy house would be empty, and Lucius was in no state to be brought straight to St. Mungo's.

"Where are we?"

"My home."

They'd arrived at the base of the staircase, beautiful carved stone connecting the two levels of the terraced yard. There was no drive or road for the steps to connect to, just the moor, but they'd been too interesting to remove. The patch of level grass at the bottom of the steps was a perfect place for the gap in the wards traditionally placed inside the house as an Apparation room. They could look out a window and see who had arrived, and it gave them a moment to collect themselves before the visitors knocked at the door.

The cottage looked very quaint from the stairs. The ivy had been controlled, but the front of the house was still largely green. The front door was deep red, almost the same ochre color as the apron Hermione had worn in Australia. In the center of the door, a bronze door knocker, a simple ring. He half wondered if Lucius would say something about the almost-Gryffindor colors.

Inside, the entryway was bright and airy. There had once been a huge dangling chandelier in the space next to the staircase, but Hermione still had scars from the Malfoy chandelier and it had been more interesting to light the space ambiently with spells. The walls were white and speckled with framed photographs. There was a gray-blue runner up the stairs.

Lucius made a huffing noise that was probably the ghost of a chuckle, and Severus looked to see him smirking at the library. It was the most Expanded room in the house, full of overstuffed bookcases. There was barely enough room for the sofa and a few wingback armchairs. They'd raided other Prince properties for most of the furniture in the house, incorporating them bit by bit and removing hexes and curses as they went.

"That is Amelia Prince's writing desk," Lucius said, indicating the rolltop desk squeezed between two tall bookcases. "I thought the Princes had disowned your mother."

"Ah, yes. Well. Luckily, the last of them reinstituted me before they realized I was a traitor to the cause."

The silence was awkward, which was not what he'd intended.

"Is there… Where is my wife?"

"Narcissa went to St. Mungo's with Astoria this morning."

"Not Draco?"

"He was already there. She wasn't due for a few weeks yet, so he was on his shift as usual."

"I was… I think…"

"Sit down," Severus instructed, pointing at the end of the hall where the dining table was in plain view. Lucuis did as he was told. "Do you want to bathe and change first, or do you want me to tell you what happened first?"

Lucius put his hands on the table and looked down at them. Severus had never seen his nail beds so dirty.

"What happened?" Lucius looked up from his hands.

Severus sat down across from him and took a breath. He hadn't talked about the war since the year it ended. It wasn't something he liked to think about; it wasn't something anybody involved liked to talk about.

"You were sentenced to ten years. You served seven of them. Narcissa was sentenced to two years and was released after one."

"A whole year?"

"Never near the Dementors."

"Good… good."

"The summer following, Draco stayed with us at Hogwarts. Lestrange—Rabastan—and a few others that had evaded capture were making random attacks, putting up the Mark. Potter captured them, of course. Draco moved to the London house, took his N.E.W.T.s—I will let him tell you his scores. He went to France for the Healing program. I think it was good for him to get out of England. He took a placement there, brought Narcissa out with him when she was released, and that was where he and Astoria reconnected."

"Narcissa always wanted to live in France."

"She didn't like it."

"What?"

"There was one shop she told me about that had 'acceptable pastries,' but otherwise I've yet to hear a positive thing about France. And they've been back for three years."

Lucius smirked, but his eyes were sad. Severus stood and went to the kitchen to prepare tea in order to give Lucius a moment for himself.

"Mum?"

"Hugo," Severus said, looking up to see his youngest wandering in the front door. He was in jeans and a t-shirt, bare feet, his curly mop of hair messy like he'd just woken up even though it was nearing noon. He was like Bast in miniature, though his hair was a touch closer to Hermione's brown than his and Bast's jet black.

"Dad. Where's Mum?"

"Up on the landing." _Trying to give Lucius his privacy_.

"Mum! I can't find my socks!"

Severus shook his head, bringing the tea to the table. Bast was the climber, getting into all sorts of things. Sofia was the mouth, talking herself into corners. Elaine was the clever one, causing the sort of trouble they didn't notice until it was far too late. Hugo was the one that was always losing things, from his socks to his brother's Charms textbook.

"We ought to get you a toy wand and see if you can't get a Summoning Charm out of it," Hermione said, her voice fading as she and Hugo headed into his bedroom.

"Life goes on, hm?" Lucius said, taking the tea and slowly stirring in a dollop of honey.

"And now you're a grandfather," Severus said, smirking when Lucius's spoon rattled against the cup.


	60. Epilogue, Part II

Hermione walked through the house. It was quiet, but she was used to it being quiet. Bast was in London, rooming with friends. They'd cleared the Prince townhouse, made it livable, and then turned it into a bachelor pad for the three of them as they went through Auror training. (Severus had eventually delegated a pair of house elves to the house when he'd realized none of them knew how to cook, nor could they be bothered to clean without eminent threat of visiting parents.) The girls were in a rented flat in Inverness. Ellie had a Potions apprenticeship and was rarely around, leaving Sofia to her thoughts when she wasn't working at Flourish and Blott's. And Hugo was about to start his second year at Hogwarts; she was almost used to the children being away.

But now Severus was returning to Hogwarts. Not returning like he had the last few years, for meetings about education reform or as a substitute in Potions or Defense. Minerva had been slowly reeling him back in, and she'd finally succeeded.

The baby boom following the war had hit the school. When she'd attended, there had been mere dozens of incoming first years. The first rise of Tom Riddle had seen to that. The first years in the years following had made up much larger classes. The incoming class for the current school year had one hundred students in it; nearly triple the past decade's average. The core classes were all doubling up on teachers, and the elective classes would expand in the next few years as well.

Severus would be teaching the N.E.W.T.-level Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, sixth and seventh years. That alone wouldn't have meant his full return to Hogwarts. Minerva had convinced him to return as Head of Slytherin as well, though. That required that he live in the castle.

"Hugo! I see your trunk, but I do not see Crookshanks."

"He's under the dresser."

"Ask him nicely."

"I _did_."

Hermione made her way down the hall to the bedroom that he'd inherited when Bast moved out. Her youngest was already in his Hogwarts uniform, but he'd thrown the robe on the bed and rolled up his sleeves. He was sprawled across the floor, one arm beneath the dresser trying to get a hand on Crookshanks.

"Come on, Crooks," Hermione said, squatting down. Her old half-kneazle gave her a look before he scooted out to her. He was more white than orange these days, a bit slower, and much more curmudgeonly. "There we go."

"He doesn't listen to anybody but you, Mum."

"Well at least somebody listens to me," she said, raising an eyebrow at Hugo and making him laugh. Crookshanks sulked his way into his travel case and went to sleep. "Don't forget your robe, now. We need to go."

Hugo pulled on his robe and triple-checked that he had his wand in his pocket. (He was forever misplacing it. They'd had to owl it to him when he'd left it at home after Christmas the year before.)

Twenty minutes later, they were at King's Cross. There were people everywhere.

"You come see me every Sunday, alright?" Hermione instructed, giving Hugo one last hug.

"Mum," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "Nobody else is allowed to see their parents on the weekend."

"Glen Norman is."

"Who's that?"

"Seventh year Gryffindor. His mother is the N.E.W.T. Muggle Studies teacher."

"That's not the point."

"Well fine then, don't come see me."

He frowned at her. "Now you make it sound like I don't want to see you."

"You said you don't."

"I said nobody else got to see their parents." She tried not to smile at him, but she must've given herself away because he all but stamped his foot. "Mum!"

"I'll see you on Sunday, dear," she said, smirking. "Enjoy the train ride. Say hello to Victoire and Teddy for me."

"I probably won't even see them, Mum. They aren't even in my House."

"But they're on the train, aren't they?" Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.

Hugo went up on his toes to kiss her on the cheek, then took his trunk and headed for the train. She suspected the muffled word she heard him say as he left was, "Impossible."

\\\

"Settled?" Severus asked her, buttoning up his teaching robe.

"All our things are away, if that's what you mean," she said, fixing his collar for him. The robes were the same cut and style as the robes he'd worn when she was a student of Hogwarts, but not black. Tonight's set was a deep green-gray over his usual coat and trousers.

"You miss the cottage already?"

"It feels like the end of an era is all. The children are growing up, or grown up. You're back at Hogwarts on your own terms. My goals for the werewolf legislation are almost complete. And, yes, it's strange to be back in the castle."

They were in the Head of Slytherin's suite in one of the upper dungeons, a few levels above the Potions classrooms. The Defense professor for the younger levels had the rooms behind the classroom, and it had made sense for Severus to take the suite closer to the Slytherin common room again. These were the rooms he'd had to himself for so long between the wars, and they'd gone unoccupied for the past several years as the Head of Slytherin, Arcturus Martin-Waynebridge, had been more comfortable in the warmer tower rooms near his Divination classroom. (Trelawney had packed up and left two years after the war, likely because of the chafing between her and Minerva though nobody had ever out-and-out said as much.)

"Well. I'm contractually obligated to be in the Great Hall for eight meals a week, three meals each weekend until we start up the Hogsmeade rota, and every meal calling itself a Feast." He flicked a bit of non-existent lint from his lapel. "Are you joining me, or have you decided to take advantage of your ability to opt out?"

"You're impossible," Hermione muttered, holding out her hands so that he could help her up and then fussing a bit with the drape of her own dress robes. They were a lovely cranberry color that flattered her skin tone and were just dark enough that she didn't feel like they were coordinating like holly and berries.

He kissed her and then they walked up to the Welcoming Feast together. (The most remarkable part of the Feast was how _un_remarkable it was that three Muggle-borns were Sorted into Slytherin.)


	61. Epilogue, Part III

When she was alone these days, it felt like the line between the living and the dead was very thin. She could feel them with her, the people she'd lost along the way. Severus most of all, of course.

She talked to them sometimes. There were things she just _knew_ they were teasing her about from beyond the veil and she wanted a comeback. (She tried to remember not to when the kids were around, though. It made them nervous.)

"Mum?"

"In here!" She stood up, bringing the box up with her. She'd put it off for much too long. 'Just do it or don't,' she could hear Severus say in her mind. Was it a memory or her imagination?

"Let me help," Ellie said, taking the box.

"Thank you, dear," Hermione said, then added, "Never get old."

"I'll try not to, Mum."

Hermione smiled and led the way to the study (once Bast's bedroom), directing her daughter to put the box on the desk. She could've carried it herself, and it would've been perfectly easy to use a spell, but it was Severus's box of notes and she'd wanted to hold it. She would've ended up using a spell, though—her hands were shaky today. It happened. She'd aged relatively well, though her joints ached no matter how many potions she took, and her left hand tended to cramp up painfully.

"How are you today?"

"Still old," Hermione said, smiling at her daughter. It was summer, and that meant Ellie had more time. She'd never had children of her own, but she and her husband were both Heads of House at Hogwarts now. Hermione told herself that they would be fine—there were hundreds of young people who cared about them, not to mention the nieces and nephews. There would be somebody to check up on Ellie when she was in Hermione's position.

It was odd, the things she worried about now. A long time ago, it had been Horcruxes and whether or not madmen were going to kill her husband. (There was no small amount of pride in that he'd died of old age, more or less.) Then it had been her children, their happiness, their safety. Then it was things like werewolves' rights, and whether or not Severus thought she was getting fat. Life was odd like that.

These days, she worried about what was going to happen to the people she worried about when she wasn't there to worry about them anymore.

All things considered, she didn't worry about things half so much as Severus had. Retirement had given the man altogether too much time to think.

"Well? Are you going to look at it 'til I'm as gray as you, or are you going to open it?

"Very funny," Hermione said, but opened it. Stacks of notes, some of them yellow with age, most of them Shrunk to fit, filled the box to the brim so that they fluttered and threatened to drift out. They were covered in his handwriting, which hit her in the gut like a punch. She sat down.

"You've decided to write it?" Hermione nodded. Ellie smiled. "I didn't think you would."

"Somebody should, and most everybody else is dead now."

"Uncle Ron isn't. He'd be glad to help."

"He'd be glad to tell me we're both single now and destined to be together at last."

"Mum!" Ellie pulled a scandalized face, but giggled. "I can't see the two of you together like that."

"It almost happened. You probably would've been a Weasley if Dumbledore hadn't given me the Time Turner."

"Elaine Weasley," Ellie said, then gave an exaggerated shudder that made Hermione smile.

"He named all his daughters after flowers. You would've been Chrysanthemum or Rose or something."

"Well, thank goodness for Dad," Ellie said, grinning as she pulled over a chair. "Chrysanthemum," she muttered. "_Honestly_."

They started sorting through the box. There were photos tucked here and there, notes Severus had jotted down after talking to somebody about what had happened. He'd got his hands on a transcript from the hearing, which wasn't supposed to have been possible. Hermione wondered if he'd taken a Dictaquill into a Pensieve.

* * *

**A/N: So I promised myself I'd upload this next part if we hit 1,000 reviews by the time I woke up, thinking it wouldn't happen and I'd just putter around as usual before I head off to work this morning. I was wrong! (Yay) So here it is, and I'll post the next bit when I get home this afternoon. And then there's one more before we're done—it just worked better to split the epilogue up into bits like this (what with all the jumps forward in the timeline), even if they're a bit short.**

**And, of course, thank you for getting us to 1,000! I've never had this much feedback on anything I've written ever. It's fantastic.**

**Cheers!**

**—M**


	62. Epilogue, Part IV

The house was quiet. Mum had had two elves to help her after Dad died, but they'd both gone.

Warm woods and the smell of the lemon polish the elves used on them. The lingering scent of baking bread. All the smells of home, but none of the hominess.

It was three days after the funeral. The bread smell was entirely in her imagination, of course; Mum had been in St. Mungo's for months, too ill to bake.

That was one of the things Ellie remembered best about her childhood. The time in Australia was vague—she remembered that the kitchen had had white cabinets and that the piano had seemed monstrously large, but little else—but the rest of her childhood, after the brief time at Hogwarts, had been in the cottage where her parents had grown old. It was in the kitchen with the dark-stained wood cabinets, the white dish cloth folded over the handle of the oven just so. Her mother had baked bread every Sunday in that kitchen as far back as Ellie could remember, even when they'd barely been moved in.

"Miss you, Mum," Ellie murmured, closing the door behind her. Directly in front of her was the staircase, its gray-blue runner worn down the middle from years of feet.

There was much to do. It fell to her to go through their mother's things, as she had the time off. It was July; she wasn't due back at Hogwarts for more than a full month. Bast would be by in the morning, and Hugo's summer seminar finished in a week and he'd help after. Sofia would probably be by after work with a bottle of cheap wine like they'd had when they were living together before they'd met their husbands.

Despite the list of tasks for herself growing at the back of her mind, Ellie walked through the house first. It all seemed as if Mum or Dad might walk into the room at any moment. It was strange being at the cottage by herself.

Even after everybody had grown up and moved out, even during the school year when Mum and Dad had been living at Hogwarts, it had seemed so _full_. There were grandchildren underfoot, or Bast home to ask a question, or Sofia to borrow a book, or Hugo trying to pin down some theory. Ellie had spent more than her fair share of summer afternoons brewing with Dad. There was the potential that, any moment, somebody was going to pop round for tea or to talk or to just be _home_ for a moment before they had to go back to their own lives. The cottage had always been a haven like that.

The library was quiet. There were charms on the walls and windows to keep it that way. Everything was comfortable without being plush. There were excellent places to sit and read, every chair with good lighting and a table nearby for tea. It had been Expanded over the years to accommodate the sheer size of her parents' collection.

Then the kitchen, the heart of the home in many ways. Her parents had seemed to rotate through the kitchen without any set pattern and without fighting about whose turn it was to do the cooking (a minor miracle, Ellie had come to believe, considering she and her own husband argued about who was making dinner every night except for Saturdays, which had been take-out night for as long as they'd been a couple; it was lucky they were at Hogwarts with the house elves to cook for them the majority of the year).

There wasn't a dining room so much as a big table that had to be spelled to fit them all at Christmas. It spilled over into the sitting room, which was hardly used and much less comfortable than the library. There was the fireplace, magically enlarged so that it was big enough to stand up in, which made Floo travel much more pleasant. There was Mum's piano, though she hadn't played since before Dad died. A little seating arrangement of wingback chairs and a small sofa, which Ellie had spent most of her life convinced they owned simply because a sitting room required a place to sit.

Upstairs were the bedrooms. Bast's room, an expansion of the library downstairs (though there were more photo albums and Muggle fiction upstairs than the more academic stuff downstairs) with a large couch that transfigured easily into a comfortable bed for visiting grandchildren. The room she and Sofia had shared still had their bunk beds (again for the grandchildren) and the Quidditch poster from Aunt Ginny's first year as a professional. Hugo's room at the back of the house had been transformed into an office following Dad's retirement.

She watched the dust swirling prettily through the afternoon sunshine coming through the office window and suddenly felt claustrophobic. She couldn't breathe in the too-still, too-empty cottage. It was stifling.

Ellie went down the stairs and out back through the conservatory. It was full of magical plants and flowers, all of them arranged around the gnarly old oak tree that grew through the roof. The glass panels that made up the walls and roof made it hot even in winter, and on the summer day it was both humid and hellishly warm—Ellie hurried through to the yard beyond, turning her face to the cool breeze.

The house elves had kept up the garden. It had only been a few days, but the garden was full of magical plants that tended to escape their bounds if given half a chance. There weren't even any weeds.

Ellie went left off the patio down the little path to the bench by the ever-blooming lilac bush. It smelled heavenly.

The spot on the bench gave the perfect view of the yard. There were the raised boxes of plants destined to be potions ingredients up near the house, the fenced-in patch of garden. Dad had built a shed for brewing potions at the far corner of the yard, the distance a safety precaution he'd never actually needed, with an overhang that provided perpetual shade for another raised box of plants that did particularly well with dark. Closer to the bench where she sat were the flowers, the whimsical plants Longbottom presented her parents every Christmas, and a particularly large turnip plant that Uncle Harry had given Mum (it was originally from Longbottom, and Ellie suspected there was some joke that she didn't know involved).

It was odd that the garden could be stifling as well.

"How long have you been out here?" Bast asked, making her jump.

"How long have _you_ been out here?"

Bast raised an eyebrow, and in that moment he looked so much like her father that it hurt. The tears came on with surprising quickness.

"What are we going to do?" she asked him when the tears slowed to a trickle. He'd sat next to her on the bench and pulled her into his side.

"Maybe we could put a stasis on it and sell tickets," he suggested, and she had to pull back and look at his face to be sure he was joking. "People have been trying to get the inside scoop on Mum and Dad almost as far back as I can remember."

"I was being serious," she said, wiping her face and trying not to sniffle. "I don't know where to start. I went in the house and it was just—it was exactly like it always is, was. Whatever."

Dad had died suddenly. They'd all been called to the cottage one morning, and Mum had been alone. Mum's death had been expected. They'd been checking in on her for months, then it was visiting her in St. Mungo's, and then the Healers had Flooed and told them they should come in because she was close to the end. And then they'd been talking about wills and funeral arrangements and who would be able to stop in and sort out the cottage.

"It's still home."

"Yes."

"Isn't that strange?" he asked, half to himself. "Neither of us has actually lived here in decades."

"It's just… It's the place they built for us. For themselves, but for us."

"They built _us_ for themselves," Bast said, and she elbowed him in the side harder than she probably should have. He didn't laugh like he might've on a different day, but he definitely smirked.

"I wasn't expecting _you_ so soon," Sofia said, joining them. She did indeed have a bottle of cheap wine with her.

"Brenna shooed me out of the shop," he said, scooting over so that there was room for Sofia on the bench.

"They made me leave work early, too," Sofia said.

"That's one advantage to having famous parents I suppose," Ellie said, conjuring herself a glass for Sofia to pour into.

They were quiet for a long moment, sipping the wine without tasting it.

\\\

The weeks that followed were full of emotional upheaval. Ellie cleaned the house, going through each room, sorting things before putting them back. The others stopped in to help as they could. Bast and Sofia had day jobs. Hugo wasn't able to help at all until he finished teaching a summer seminar. Nobody specific was inheriting the house—there were more Prince properties than any of them could ever need, and they had all settled here or there as they wished. It went unspoken that the cottage would be the family gathering place, for Christmases and birthdays. It would be the family library and the family haven as it had always been.

Bast found a box of old letters from the war. Their parents had written each other constantly for months. They weren't quite love letters; in fact, they seemed to be trying very hard to scare each other off, or at least offend each other. Dad insulted Mum's hair quite a lot, and Mum had sent him clips of the driest, most boring publications (notated, of course).

Sofia found a letter that had been folded and reread so many times that it was nearly falling apart despite the preserving charms Mum had layered onto it. It was Dad's proposal. The story had always gone that he hadn't expected to be with her on Christmas, so he'd written her a letter and sent her a ring. She'd showed up for Christmas with a marriage license. And now here was the proposal, words like "cherish" and "please" looking odd in his spiky handwriting.

Hugo was the one to find the manuscript. It was the book Mum had been working on since Dad died, a memoir from the war. It was a compilation of many peoples' experiences, but mostly Mum and Dad's. There were photographs stuck in between some of the pages—from a very old photo of the original Order of the Phoenix to Dad's Chocolate Frog card. They read it together, passing around the pages when they were tired of cleaning out drawers and sorting through the old receipts Mum had kept in her meticulous files.

Ellie felt she'd done well; she hadn't broken down since that first day in the garden. What finally did it for her was the photograph she found in her mother's night stand. It was on top of the comb and her dad's wand. It wasn't the photo itself; she'd seen that plenty of times—it was a candid from the Christmas after Hugo's eldest had first manifested magic (thus allowing him to tell his Muggle wife the truth despite the Statute of Secrecy). The children were so small, their smiles so large. They were all gathered in the cottage sitting room in their pajamas, laughing as Bast pretended to be appalled at his daughter's exuberance over the toy broomstick she'd just unwrapped.

Dad had taken the photo and obviously given Mum a copy; he'd written "Thank you, H" on the back, and that was what had Ellie crying again. It reminded her of the letters—addressing each other as 'H' and 'S' instead of by name. Maybe because they'd been worried the letters would be intercepted? Maybe because they both knew perfectly well by handwriting if not content who was doing the writing?

She sat and cried and thought of the two of them together. She had a very vivid memory of being very young—probably only a few months after Hugo was born—and sitting on her mum's bed. Mum had been running a wide-toothed comb through her hair, still wet from a shower. It was long and straight for only a few moments before it began to curl up as it dried, and Ellie had liked to watch it; it was so much like her own hair, but somehow madder and more vibrant, copper and honey tones hidden among the browns (and later, the grays and whites). Dad had liked it to, running his fingers through it, stretching a curl out straight to watch it bounce back up, and then ignoring Mum's protests that that made it frizzier.

"The pair of you are hopelessly romantic figures, even in death," she murmured, heading for the bathroom to splash some water on her face. "You're lucky you didn't spoil the lot of us for marriage, setting such an example."

She didn't know who she was talking to, but it seemed like the sort of thing to say.


	63. Afterword

Sebastian—

Bast was Sorted into Ravneclaw. He earned the top O.W.L. scores in his year and was a Prefect, then Head Boy his seventh year. He joined the Aurory straight out of Hogwarts, and excelled like most everything he put his mind to.

He married a pretty Slytherin named Brenna. After a few years, Fortescue retired and they bought the ice cream shop. It was good timing, as they'd been talking about starting a family if he could find himself a position that didn't put him in danger so often. (He could remember what it felt like when he'd realized how much danger his parents had been in when he was young, and he didn't want his own children to have to worry about him the way he'd worried for his parents.)

He settled very happily into running the shop, much as his uncle Ron had settled into managing the Hogsmeade premesis of Weasley Wizard Wheezes after he'd left the Aurory.

Bast and Brenna had one daughter, Emily.

* * *

Sofia—

Sofia was Sorted into Ravenclaw. In her third year, she was a second string Chaser for the House Quidditch team, and was moved up to first string starting her fourth year.

After Hogwarts, she spent a year working at Flourish &amp; Blott's before beginning her career in the archives at the Ministry. Taking after her parents, she loved every moment of it.

She lived with Ellie in Inverness, clearing out the old Prince residence (their father having gotten bored one summer when they were kids and removing the worst of the curses). When Ellie moved out, her boyfriend, Jack Porter from the Records Office, moved in. They were engaged for nearly a decade before they married.

Sofia and Jack had one son, Alexander.

* * *

Ellie—

Ellie was Sorted into Ravenclaw. In her third year, she was a second string Chaser for the House Quidditch team, and was moved up to first string starting her fourth year.

She took a Potions apprenticeship straight out of Hogwarts, living with Sofia in Inverness. She was quickly recruited by the Department of Mysteries following her apprenticeship and worked as an Unspeakable for six years, often owling her father potions questions she wasn't allowed to give him any context for.

When there was a vacancy for a Potions professor at Hogwarts, Ellie took the job and spent the rest of her career at the school. She fell in love with the Defense professor, Frank McTavish, almost immediately, but they spent years ignoring the attraction to preserve their friendship. Eventually they did marry, but they never had children.

* * *

Hugo—

Hugo was Sorted into Slytherin. He joined the House Quidditch team in his fourth year as a reserve Keeper and held that position until graduation. He was also a Prefect.

School was easy for Hugo, but the real world took some getting used to. After Hogwarts, he held quite a few part-time jobs—from a cook at the Three Broomsticks to seasonal help at Weasley Wizard Wheezes—and was even a reserve Keeper for the Chudley Canons for two seasons.

Then he met Ana North, a Muggle, in a coffee shop near the Leaky Cauldron. It was instant, head-over-heels love. They married the summer after they met.

Hugo enrolled at Oxford because that's where Ana was enrolled. He ended up with a degree in mathematics and went on to teach at a Muggle college. (She went into astrophysics.)

Eventually, they got around to having children and he was finally able to tell her about magic. It became a side project for them to catalogue magic using the principles of math and physics.

Hugo and Ana had three sons, David, Jeremiah (Jem) and Rory.

* * *

Severus—

Severus took time off following the war. The hardest part about it all being _over_ was watching life carry on. Normal lives picked up around them, routines taking over.

He and Hermione didn't bicker about the curtains, but any time they tried to go out in public together (let alone with any or all of their children) it attracted crowds. Crowds made them both jumpy, and it made Severus snarky. It was what eventually drove him back to Hogwarts—not only that he enjoyed teaching, but he could take points when a student tried to tell him that he was a hero and nip that little annoyance in the bud, as it were.

They raised their children. They enjoyed the Prince inheritance because it meant they didn't need to worry about finding work for awhile. He removed the curses from items and properties in his spare time.

In 2011, when the population explosion following the war had reached school age, he returned to Hogwarts to teach Defense. He taught the N.E.W.T. students, and another professor taught the younger levels. He was Head of Slytherin House again, and his second year back he was Deputy Headmaster when Minerva retired and Pomona stepped up from Deputy to Headmistress.

When Pomona retired, he was offered Headmaster again. He only accepted because the Governors threatened to bring in an administrator from outside the school.

Ellie had been hired as Potions Mistress before he was made Headmaster, which saved quite a bit of a headache. Every so often, he'd get a letter about nepotism, but they fell off quite a bit after he locked Ellie and McTavish (the bloke who taught the first – fifth year Defense classes) in the staff room while the rest of the school was out watching Quidditch. Having two Professors McTavish was much preferable to having a Professor Snape and a Headmaster Snape. All he had to do was remind them to be discreet every so often.

Eventually, Severus retired. He and Hermione hadn't lived in the cottage properly since he'd been made Headmaster again, and they enjoyed the peace and their garden. They researched whatever they thought of until they ran out of interest. They published a little too often to be properly retired (or at least that's what the children told them). They spent time with their grandchildren.

Severus died within spitting distance of 140. He needed reading glasses, and a cane to walk (the arrow through the knee all those years ago revisiting him). He made a habit of thwacking the cane against door frames and the like to startle _young people_ who got on his nerves. His hair was white, his face was wrinkled. He'd shaved his whiskers when they started to go white, swearing he'd never look like the cliché old-man-wizard with the long white beard.

He went quietly in his sleep one morning. He and Hermione had woken up together, he'd kissed her, and she'd gone to fetch them tea in bed (since she'd lost their morning bicker about who would go down to the kitchen). When she returned, he was gone, the gentle smile he'd had on when he watched her leave the room still on his face.

The funeral was even better attended than Dumbledore's had been. Severus would've hated the whole affair.

* * *

Hermione—

Hermione played a large part in opening the Muggle Relations Office(a resource for Muggle-borns and their parents), personally burned the Muggle-born registration records, and generally stomped around like an angry toddler (as she liked to describe it in retrospect) until the Ministry timidly toed its way out of the Victorian Age. They were still quite old-fashioned, and still ridiculously backwards at times, but she felt better about it.

Hermione spent _years_ after the war advocating for werewolf rights, centaur rights, house elf rights, and even goblin rights on occasion. There were many fights—some of them with the more backwards members of the Wizengamot, some of them with those she was advocating for.

Once there were full moon resources available on a pay-what-you-can basis and hundreds of plain-English pamphlets for Muggle parents, Hermione took a month off for her son's wedding and never got back in the swing of it. Instead, she immersed herself in the sort of pure research she hadn't had the time to focus on since the war. Severus was back at Hogwarts by then, so she had full access to the school's library, and Sofia's job in the Ministry's archives was another bonus.

When Severus retired, they returned to the cottage. They researched together, and it was lovely. She baked bread on Sundays, and Severus tinkered with spells. There were always children or grandchildren underfoot, checking up on them.

Severus died four years before Hermione. She missed him terribly. She spent her last years visiting Severus's portrait at Hogwarts more often than the current headmaster found convenient.

END

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**A/N: _Thank you_. I can't say it enough. Never have I ever had such incredible responses to what I've been writing; it's been amazing to putz around with a chapter, edit it up, post it, and then get this outpouring of appreciation and constructive criticism and feedback. Also, I've been told I made some of you cry; I'm sorry, I think.**

**You guys are fantastic. Thank you for sticking with me through these last seven months and nearly 300,000 words. It would've been a lot shorter without your reviews.**

**Cheers!**

**—M**

* * *

Disclaimer: These characters are not my own; I just borrowed them to play with in my sandbox of painful character development for a bit. Now I'm putting them back. Really. They're back. They're exactly where you left them. Just go open any of the "Harry Potter" books, and they'll be there. Just as they've always been. Up to their eyeballs in the adventure that started it all.

*No humans, animals or mythical creatures were harmed in the writing of this fic. I can't speak to any damage caused by reading it.


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